


the guns below / now we lie

by Ealasaid, Pavuvu



Series: between the crosses [4]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Brotherly Affection, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Death, Depression, Epistolary, Eventual Happy Ending, Fix-It, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Historical Accuracy, Injury Recovery, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Parent Death, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex, Supernatural Elements, Terminal Illnesses, Touch-Starved, Trench Magazines/Newspapers, Trench Warfare, World War I, ghost!Blake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 105,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/pseuds/Pavuvu
Summary: the guns below:It's not just the war that makes living difficult.now we lie:William Schofield's talents are needed.  He wishes they weren't.[post-canon novels centered on William Schofield and Joseph Blake's experiences set directly following the events ofWe are the Deadas they navigate what brought them into the war, what will bring them out of the war, and the end of the war itself.][re-titled 6/3/2020]
Relationships: Joseph Blake & Lieutenant Richards, Joseph Blake & Tom Blake, Joseph Blake & William Schofield, Joseph Blake/Original Female Character(s), Tom Blake & William Schofield, William Schofield & Tom Blake & Joseph Blake, William Schofield/William Schofield's Wife
Series: between the crosses [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656289
Comments: 402
Kudos: 84





	1. tgb: December 20th, 1917 - January 16th, 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the guns below_ part 1: Will goes home.

_December 20th, 1917 -- Saint-Omer, France_

“Good,” Will says from where he’s sitting on the trunk. “Now come back out, Tom. Let’s try it again.”

Tom flickers back into view by the table, looking a little winded. “Can I have a break?” he asks, staggering a touch dramatically. “I’m starting to feel sick with all this being sucked into things business.”

“But you’re so good at it,” Joseph says, ribbing his brother. Contrary to his tone, though, he also looks a little pale. They have been working hard at it for nearly an hour.

“Okay,” Will says instead, compromising. “Let’s take a moment to rest.”

The three of them are working to see what Joseph can do. In the past two weeks, Joseph has learned how to call Tom from the other side of the city and also how to call him into objects. (Joseph tends to put him in a ring. Will suspects it is actually one of Tom’s old rings, but he can’t say for sure; Joseph keeps it on a chain around his neck.) Right now they are practicing the latter.

“It still feels really abrupt,” Tom is telling Joseph, fumbling with how to explain it properly. “Like -- like -- you’re hitting me over the head with a book and dropping me down a chute. Something like that.”

“It’s probably a force of habit,” Joseph replies, flopping down onto his bed. “You know, from all our childhood experiences.”

“When did you ever hit me with a book and drop me down a chute?” Tom demands. “I remember that time you shut me up in the dumbwaiter and I nearly gave Minnie a heart attack when she opened it up and I popped out, but I wasn’t _falling--_ ”

“No, remember? I did it when you were like, four. Father just about skinned me alive he was so furious -- ”

“But what chute did you drop me in? Did we ever have a chute?”

“No, I just knocked you down with one of the books in Father’s study. You were laid out across that rug of his like a dead rat. I got the thrashing of my life for ‘beating up on your little brother who is four years younger than you and not even half your size’ -- ”

Will snorts quietly. It seems like every session winds up like this. He’s learnt more about Tom and Joseph’s histories in the last two weeks than he’s heard from either of them in the entire past year he’s known them.

“Well then, I guess you deserved that caning,” Tom says. “Hitting your little brother with a book when he was four years old! You’re a terrible older brother.”

For some reason, that strikes deeply; seeing Joseph’s flinch, Will intervenes and gets both of their attention back on the present. “You mention it’s abrupt,” he says to Tom, redirecting Tom from whatever rant he is about to start upon. “Like how? How does it compare to when I do it?”

Tom, diverted, frowns in thought. “It’s like -- I dunno. Do it to me, real quick? Let me get a feel for both.”

Will blinks, but complies with the request -- it’s giving Joseph time to pull his thoughts together, he sees. Will twirls Tom’s spirit through his fingers and coils him up, tucking him into his tin with the ease of long practice. He waits a beat once Tom is safely ensconced, then thumps the tin gently to tell Tom to come back out. 

Tom reappears, looking less pale and more settled. “That’s it,” he says, seriously. “It’s just neater, somehow. It feels like you’re rolling me up in a blanket and putting me to bed, or -- or something like that,” he finishes awkwardly, looking a touch embarrassed. 

“Really? Rolling?” Will thinks it through out loud to forestall any teasing commentary by Joseph. “I was thinking I was coiling you up like twine. I wonder if it’s the thought of what you’re doing . . . what are you thinking about when you call him in, Joseph?”

Joseph looks surprised (and also recovered, fortunately). “I hadn’t thought about it,” he says. “I just -- think of grabbing him and putting him in the ring, I guess.”

“What if you thought about it as like -- ” Will thinks hard about how to explain this properly. “What if you imagined it as smoothing the metal? Like, polishing the ring?” It doesn’t sound right, even to him; he tries miming it instead, holding his hand as though he is grasping a ring between his thumb and forefinger, and moves his thumb in a circle.

“Are you sure that’s polishing a ring?” Tom looks dubious. “I feel like that’s not how you polish a ring, isn’t it more forceful than that?”

Will scowls at him. “I’m a tailor, not a jeweler,” he reminds his friend. “At most, I polish buttons.”

“No, I think I see what you mean,” Joseph says slowly, copying the motion. “Do you think that’ll work?”

“Might as well give it a try,” Will says with a shrug. “Ready for another go, Tom?”

Tom is eyeing Joseph with suspicion, but he nods to show he is ready for it, anyway. Joseph closes his eyes and makes a small movement with his finger, tracing a little circle. Tom wisps out of sight, ghost thinning and following the movement of Joseph’s finger as it goes, disappearing down Joseph’s collar and settling into the ring. 

“And back out, now,” Will says once he’s certain Tom is placed. 

Tom comes out again. “Okay, no more,” he says, looking a little green. “It was better that time but it still didn’t feel right.”

“Don’t puke,” Joseph says, looking amused.

Tom makes a face at him. “I’ll make sure to aim for you if I do, don’t worry,” he says grumpily.

“What didn’t feel right this time?” Will wants to know. He’s curious, now; he’s never had the opportunity to practice like this. 

Tom shakes his head. “It was like spinning,” he says. “Gentler than before -- I wasn’t being hit over the head or anything -- but just. Like someone picked me up and spun me round.”

“Huh,” Joseph says, and that about sums it up. 

In the lull, there is a knock on the door. Captain Richards comes through without waiting for Joseph’s acknowledgement. “Blake, I’m here to drag you -- ah, sorry, gentlemen,” he says, seeing Will. “I appear to be intruding.”

“Not at all, Sir,” Will says, standing and saluting with Joseph. Richards returns it, perfunctory. It’s as good a time to wrap up practice as any, looking at Tom, and though Will wishes he and Joseph could wrap things up in conversation as well, they can do it later. “I’ll see myself out, Sirs.”

Joseph looks startled, but covers it well. “Tomorrow, then, Sergeant,” he says, formality playing its role in shielding their friendship. He nods dismissal to Will.

~ * ~

Joseph notes that Richards waits politely for Will to go -- thank goodness, Tom leaves with him; Joseph never knew how distracting having a ghostly brother following you around could be! -- before he drops the distance of rank and raises his eyebrows at Joseph. “He’s made up with you, then?” Richards asks familiarly. Richards was one of the few outside of the 5th Platoon to notice when Will and Joseph were not working well together at the end of November -- he’d offered to intervene, but Joseph had been very reluctant to say anything about it, and Richards had been forced to stay out of it through Joseph’s silence.

“We came to an understanding. It was a --” how to explain doubting someone’s trust because you thought they were mad? And then it turned out they were not and you were just being a prick? “-- a misunderstanding, it turns out. We sorted things well enough.”

“Quite,” Richards says, letting his skepticism speak through the single word. Joseph does appreciate Richards’s friendship, but this is one of the times he wishes the Captain weren’t so perceptive -- or nosy. “In any case, I came by to see if you’d like a diversion.”

“A diversion at the club, I presume?”

“Precisely,” Richards says. “It’s always so dull without you there to liven it up.”

Joseph snorts. “I doubt that,” he says, looking around, but he sees he needn’t put anything in order, so he gestures for Richards to lead on. “You’re the one with the instincts of social gatherings.”

“You underestimate yourself,” Richards chides as they leave the small room. “Your face opens doors, Blake, even if your tongue doesn’t.”

“What a terrible thing to say!” Joseph exclaims in mock-horror. “You know I can be just as gracious as anyone.”

“Yes, but gracious isn’t the most entertaining thing one can be.”

“Well I hardly see how a face opens doors when there aren’t any women around.”

Richards waves this off. “Details,” he says. “Everyone likes having a good-looking bloke around, they know they’ll get more attention from the fairer sex -- should they run across any.”

“I suppose it is likelier here than it is at the front,” Joseph allows.

While the bulk of the men are camped around the edges of the town, the officers are quartered in any empty buildings that can be requisitioned. The officers’ club is not very far, and the walk -- such as it is -- through the small town streets is pleasant. It is cold, though, and there is ice on the ground; both of them must step carefully to make sure they don’t slip.

“In any case, I did have a practical reason for seeking you out,” Richards says as they turn down a broader avenue. “Your Sergeant is up for his next leave, but it coincides with yours. I thought I’d let you know that Headquarters has decided to send you home, first. Rank has its privileges, after all.”

Joseph feels himself freeze for a moment, pace faltering. He rallies and catches up before Richards has noticed. “Really?” Joseph asks. “Our leave is both at the same time?”

Richards shrugs. “He’s up for it sometime soon,” he says. “I believe his last was October of 1916 -- just after some engagement in the Somme? However, you’re also due, and we can’t have a platoon with no leadership, so --”

“Can you send him first?” Joseph interrupts. “I don’t really need any leave at the moment -- and I was home for two months when I last went, don’t forget,” he says by way of reminding Richards. Joseph isn’t sure why he doesn’t want to go home and he hasn’t the time to ponder it right now -- but he does know that Will certainly deserves it more than he, especially if it’s been over a year for him. (Or -- does he? If Joseph felt off-balance coming back home, how would Will feel? The man hardly talks about his family at all --)

Richards is looking at him curiously. “I thought you said you came to an understanding?”

Ah -- he thinks Joseph is trying to get rid of Will, still. That, Joseph can correct. “We did,” Joseph says firmly. “It’s nothing to do with him. I just don’t want to go home yet.”

“Curious way to show it,” Richards replies, obviously inviting an explanation. Joseph is reluctant to give him one, especially since he hasn’t thought it through yet himself, but -- well, Will did mention that he would need to downplay a lot of things, now that he can see the dead. Practice, this is, then. Though he does feel a little guilty he can’t be more open about this.

“Well,” Joseph starts, casting about for something plausible. It comes to him in an instant -- Tom’s (Tom! He’s still here, and Joseph can talk to him!) been ribbing him about it since Joseph was first able to see ghosts. “I mean. It’s just that with my brother --” Joseph pauses significantly, just as Mother taught, and then continues without finishing the thought, leaving it open to Richards’s interpretation. “Anyway. I’ve mentioned Mother wants to marry me off, I think? I don’t feel up to courting anyone at the moment.”

It works. Richards accepts this explanation without a qualm and nods seriously. “Yes,” Richards agrees. “It is a little jarring, to go straight into that sort of thing, I’d imagine.”

“You would,” Joseph says dryly. “Since you’re already married and all. I imagine your homecomings are significantly less, er, showy?”

“Not unless you count her parents breathing down our necks to produce heirs, you mean,” Richards cries. “I swear, they serve oysters with every meal and expect us to flee immediately afterwards straight for the bed.”

“The onerous duties of being firstborn,” Joseph says, with no small irony.

“Indeed,” Richards says, and hastily drops this line of inquiry as they come up to the club.

The club is not as busy as it usually is. Tonight it has less than its usual traffic as many officers are taking this opportunity off the lines and in an actual inhabited area to explore the local delights on offer. Joseph and Richards both wave off a pair of Lieutenants from the West Yorks who offer to take them along to the best house of pleasure that is still undiscovered, or something like that. Tempting though it is to frequent an establishment relatively unknown to the entire rest of the Division, Joseph would rather just eat something and have a nice drink in good company at the moment, and he says as much to Richards when Richards comments on it.

“But I am still curious,” Richards says much later, after they have both eaten and enjoyed several drinks. “Your Sergeant -- Schofield. I know him by reputation, to be sure, but . . .”

“Weren’t you the one he saw when he was delivering that letter to Mackenzie?” Joseph cuts him off, hoping to derail his friend. He should have known Richards would fixate on this -- while Lieutenants and Sergeants are expected to work together, they are not encouraged to have such close relationships. Joseph’s interest in Will was bound to catch someone’s attention.

“Oh, to be sure,” Richards says, taking the bait. “The man is absolutely mad! I told him he couldn’t get through down the line until the first wave went over, and what does he do? He goes over himself and bugger the consequences. And he made it, too, against the odds! I tell you, if we had more men like him --” but here Richards stops himself, focusing on Joseph. “No, don’t distract me like that,” he says narrowly. “You’ve heard me go on about this before.”

Damn. Richards hasn’t drunk enough, yet. Joseph shrugs with what he hopes is unaffected casualness and hopes he isn’t sweating visibly. “You’d probably answer your own question, I thought,” he says.

“No,” Richards says, waving a finger at him. “No no no. I do want to know -- you were all in a snit about this, I could see it and so could anyone else who cared to look. You two were not getting along in the slightest. What happened?”

Joseph looks into his drink. He doesn’t know what to say about this. “I -- it’s personal, really,” he begins, extemporizing. 

Richards looks unimpressed. “We’ve established that we are past that point,” he says, and he isn’t wrong. Joseph can tell Richards is hurt by his reticence to talk about it and the guilt gnaws at him. 

“I -- fine. Have you heard about --” Joseph leans in a little closer after looking around. “About the deadman?” 

“No,” Richards says, voice raising at the end to make it a question.

Joseph looks at him. It’s probably not worth it, he decides, and regrets saying anything. “Nevermind, then,” he says, leaning back. “If you do know, that’s it. If you don’t, don’t trouble yourself over it.”

Richards is getting stubborn now. “Are you sure?” he demands. “Because you looked like you’d been gutted, Joseph, and don’t tell me otherwise.”

“Look,” Joseph starts. “I was. It was a shock. But -- I have learned otherwise since then. Truly,” he says, when Richards opens his mouth to argue, and starts reaching for something -- anything else -- ah, of course! “It’s just difficult working out how to treat him, is all,” Joseph says quickly. “I mean, what with his closeness to -- to my brother -- and how Schofield did his best to save the 2nd, to save _me,_ for Tom’s sake, even if he didn’t know me from any other bloke in the 2nd -- does this make sense?”

It was, Joseph can see, the right thing to say. This is one of those thorny problems other officers can relate to: getting closer to men far outside their social sphere, whom they otherwise wouldn’t know in the slightest. Mostly it was with the “Temporary Gentlemen,” those officers who had been commissioned from the lower ranks, though. Joseph was probably alone in his situation where he was becoming too close with his Sergeant, due to the unique interpersonal circumstances (which he had just attempted to explain) that led to it in the first place. 

“It is a situation that invites -- demands, some might say -- fraternization,” Richards allows slowly. The unique interpersonal circumstances were apparently what made it all so fascinating to him; bloody nosy Captain, Joseph thinks with a familiar mix of fondness and frustration. “And I suppose so long as it is kept on a personal level and not a professional one -- well, you can’t be allowing secrets out, and you can’t favour him over any of the men --”

Joseph glares at him. 

“I know, I know,” Richards says, placating. “I know you wouldn’t do that. But you understand how it can be . . . interpreted.”

“We’re infantry, not navy,” Joseph says, deliberately misunderstanding. 

Richards finally sees the redirection for what it is and allows it; he salutes Joseph sardonically with his drink. “And thank God for that,” he says heartily.

~ * ~

_December 22nd, 1917 \-- Saint-Omer, France_

“This is certainly the way to spend December,” Sergeant Addington grumbles to Will as they exit the Sergeants’ mess and head for their Platoons. Tom walks in step beside Will, on the side opposite Addington. “In a bloody war, in bloody France, and not at home where we all ought to be.”

“Someone’s got to keep up the effort,” Will says, neutrally. It will be his third Christmas away from home, but he doesn’t mention that. Addington joined up around the same time Will did, but from what Will recalls about the man, Addington was able to return home earlier this year in the first few weeks of January. Addington had waxed poetic about his family’s delight in extending the holiday festivities past the New Year. 

“Even if you did get leave home, they’d probably cancel it,” Tom comments. Will knows he is thinking about the return home Tom was supposed to take months ago, cancelled right before they were called in to talk to Erinmore.

Addington refuses to be placated. “I’d like to see my family again,” he says sharply. “Langley’s been here but three months and he’s already getting his Christmas dinner at home. It’s been near a year now, and when do I get my next leave? That’s what I’d like to know. What about you -- you’ve a family to see back at home, right?”

“Yes,” Will says. “It's been a long time since I've been home to see them.”

Addington opens his mouth, presumably to push Will for more details, but at that moment Captain Richards’s voice cuts in. “Sergeants Addington, Schofield!”

All three of them, ghost included, look in the direction of the voice. Both Addington and Will salute upon seeing the Captain. Captain Richards stands on the other side of the street and is clearly expecting them to join him

“You are just the man I wanted to see, Schofield,” Captain Richards says crisply when they are in front of him. “You’re up for leave. You’re going to want to get your things together; if you hurry, you can make the morning boat across the Channel tomorrow.”

Will does not register the meaning of these words for a long second, and so it takes him a longer moment to reply. “I -- sorry, Sir, did you say leave?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Captain Richards says. He is watching Will closely, for some reason. “Both you and Lieutenant Blake are due to go on leave, and Lieutenant Blake has requested you be permitted to go first. You are expected back by January 2nd.”

Tom shoots Will a beaming grin from behind the Captain, clearly delighted at Will’s good fortune.

“Ah -- thank you, Sir,” Will manages to say after spending a brief moment wondering why on earth Joseph would insist Will be granted leave before Joseph took his. Will thought he and Joseph had mostly patched things up -- no, Will thinks, feeling more sure the longer he considers it. That isn’t it. Joseph is manipulative, but he wouldn’t be so blatant if he were attempting to get rid of Will. Will coughs to cover his slow response and forces himself to add, “Anything else, Sir?”

“Yes,” Captain Richards says after a beat. Will gets the sense Captain Richards is puzzled by something, but Will can’t imagine what. “Addington -- I believe you took over helping with 5th Platoon several months back when Everard was killed?”

“Yes, Sir,” Addington says. 

“I expect you to assume some of those duties again until Sergeant Schofield returns, then,” Captain Richards orders. He nods to both of them, ending the conversation. “That is all.”

Will and Addington salute at the dismissal as Captain Richards motions them to leave. Will feels his feet move automatically back along their previous route to their platoons’ billets. 

He is completely unprepared for when Addington pounds him on the back in congratulations and envy. “You’re a lucky man, Schofield,” the Sergeant says, tone thick with longing. Addington clears his throat, and then manages a less bitter, “Good for you, mate.”

“Yeah,” Will says, stunned. “Er, yeah, thanks.” 

Tom is more gregarious by far. “This is wonderful! You’ll get to see your wife and the girls -- and over Christmas, too!” he says brightly. “Are you going to send them a telegram or surprise them? Oh, what do you think you’ll have for Christmas dinner? I bet it’ll be delicious, whatever it is!”

Will and Sergeant Addington arrange to meet at supper to go over the necessaries -- Addington is due to inspect the 8th with Captain Richards in preparation for the replacement lieutenant, and can’t go over it now -- before Will bids Addington goodbye and heads for 5th Platoon’s billet. It is currently empty, he sees -- damn. He isn’t sure what he is to do right now. If there were men here to sort out, he’d at least know what to do with _that._

There seems to be a -- a massive block in his thoughts. All the things Will now thinks he has to do swirl until he can’t even begin to sort them out: the onerous task of arranging for travel home, getting there in sufficient time, relearning how to be a good husband and father -- oh, he hasn’t anything to bring home but himself, and the children will surely be old enough to remember, that simply won’t do -- 

“Oh, Will,” Tom continues. “Say, do you think I could follow you back? I mean sure it wouldn’t be fair to Joe, but -- ah, what does it matter. He’ll have a better time here without me bothering him every moment of the day.”

This grabs Will’s attention and (thankfully) pulls him out of his confusion. “You’d like to come?” he asks in surprise. 

Tom mimes elbowing him. “Of course,” he says. “I’ve seen your photos but --” and he gets flustered. He rushes through the rest of the words he meant to say. “I’d love to meet them, too.”

“Well,” Will says slowly. “I don’t see why not.” And at the suggestion of Tom coming with him, the list of seemingly-insurmountable tasks suddenly does not seem nearly so bad. --Yes, Will could manage all of it if Tom were with him. Will finds himself smiling as he adds, “Though there will be times you’d best make yourself scarce!”

Then, a horrible thought occurs to him. He opens and closes his mouth, thinking better of saying it. 

Tom notices instantly, of course, his face changing quickly from the mirth at Will’s joke to something more serious. “What is it?” he asks, tone full of suspicion.

“I -- I’m not sure you can,” Will answers slowly. He feels his brief cheer at the hope of Tom coming along die.

Tom gives him an annoyed look. “I know _that,”_ he says, misunderstanding -- his tone of exasperation at the reminder of his current state of being dead is a familiar sound. 

“No, I don’t mean that,” Will says heavily, still working through the implications of the idea. “I mean -- remember, what you promised the Grim? You said you were here until I was out of the war. If I went home, and you came with me -- you’d be seeing me out of the war . . .”

Tom’s expression goes from annoyed confusion to horror. “Oh,” he says. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. --But I mean, you wouldn’t really be out of the war -- it’d only be temporary --”

“You felt the pull so strongly last time,” Will says. He doesn’t like how his voice shakes at the memory of Tom’s outline fading, flickering brighter and fainter by turns as he walked towards the Grim. “And that was just because the Grim thought I wasn’t alone anymore.”

Tom’s expression softens. “I’m not leaving you before we see this through,” he says comfortingly, reaching out to let his hand hover over Will’s shoulder. “I’ll fight that call as much as I need to.”

“I don’t want to risk it,” Will says, loathe to say so. But he does. He has just got to accept that he is selfish like that -- Will is not ready to let Tom go, yet, nor risk weakening the tenuous connection Tom has to remaining here, either. “But I don’t know that I can leave you behind here. Without my anchoring you . . . do you think you’d be able to keep yourself together?”

Tom looks a little queasy at the thought. “I don’t know,” he says, uncertainly. “It’s hard not being around you or Joe for very long.”

“And even when you’re with Joseph --” Will stops himself. Tom doesn’t like it brought up, usually.

“You mean Ypres?” Tom asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

Tom looks troubled at the reminder. Will thinks about how Tom had followed Joseph across No Man’s Land -- but that it hadn’t saved him, in the end. Tom had come back in worse shape than ever. “Even with following Joseph . . .” Will says.

“No, that wasn’t it,” Tom says, cutting him off with a sharp gesture. “That was something else. I think I’d’ve been fine if it hadn’t been for . . . that.” His whole outline flickers for a moment. That scares Will, but before he can say anything, Tom continues briskly. “And anyway! Joe’s got the same powers as you, now. That’s got to mean _something.”_

“Are you sure?” Will asks. He feels the anxiety thumping through him with his heartbeat. A new thought occurs to him, one that he grasps at with renewed -- hope? -- “I can maybe beg off going back --”

“And give up seeing your family? Are you mad?” Tom is horrified by the offer. Will isn’t sure if he should be upset by that or not -- he’s still not sure about how he feels just learning he’s going _home_ for the first time in -- in over a year.

It hits him, then, the realisation. Will sits down abruptly. “It’s easier not to go home,” he says hollowly. Hope and longing and fear are all choking him, horribly. It’s hard to think. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose as though it will help.

“Talk to me, Will,” Tom says, sounding alarmed. He obviously recalls the last time something like this happened.

“I need to pack,” Will rasps, turning his thoughts away from the dark and drowning waters of personal reflection and towards the more immediate problems. “I need to pack and we need to find your brother. And I’ll need to find out how to get on the ship transport --”

“Will,” Tom interrupts. “Will, calm down. It’ll be alright, just -- take a moment, breathe, right?”

“I’m trying,” Will grates out, feeling his temper fray. 

It is at this moment that some of the men come in, voices raised in excitement that abruptly cut off as soon as they see Will. Private Tyndall, in the lead, quickly hides something behind his back. 

“Sorry, Sarge, didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, tone veering between hysterical giggling and sudden terror.

“Of course I’m here,” Will answers automatically, voice sliding into the appropriate tone for dealing with probably-wayward-but-possibly-miscreant soldiers. “I have a sixth sense for when you lot are up to something you shouldn’t be.”

“Oh no, Sir, we’re not up to anything at all,” Tyndall says virtuously. Behind him, Private Lester surreptitiously takes whatever it is Tyndall is hiding and hides it behind _his_ back. Tyndall spreads his hands wide in a show of good faith as he starts to spin his story. “We simply came back for Corporal Farley’s football. He was asking for it, so we took it upon ourselves --”

“--to offer your assistance, I’m sure,” Will finishes for him dryly. The men sweat as he looks them over. In the corner of his eye, Will sees Tom duck out of the tent -- probably gone to go find Joseph. 

“Very commendable of you all,” Will continues. He raises both eyebrows in the way he knows conveys that he’s not buying their story. “As it happens, I’m glad to hear you’re not up to no good. I heard from Lieutenant Blake that he was thinking of doing a surprise inspection later this afternoon.”

Tyndall keeps up an impressively earnest expression, not faltering in the slightest. “Of course, Sarge,” he says seriously. “We wouldn’t let you down, not us!” 

This sentiment is amusingly echoed by the rest of the group, some of whom are now shuffling nervously. 

“Best get Corporal Farley’s ball, then,” Will says lightly. It is a dismissal. The men spend a moment retrieving the item in question before hastily disappearing, leaving Will to his thoughts again.

But the interruption was at least a brief respite. Will can think more clearly, now -- at least a little. Saint-Omer, where the British Command is Headquartered, and around which the 8th Division is currently stationed, is about seven miles from the port city of Calais, where all the big troop ships ferry men between France and England. He will need to find a lorry, then, or someone heading to Calais; with all the hospitals here in Saint-Omer, Will could probably get a ride with one of the convoys taking the men discharged for medical reasons to the port.

That’s one problem solved, then. 

Joseph and Tom arrive, then, with Tom walking through the door a moment before Joseph pulls it open. Joseph already looks faintly concerned (hiding it behind polite neutrality), and upon seeing Will’s face -- well, Will can’t imagine what he looks like that would cause Joseph to pull _that_ expression. 

“Sergeant,” he starts formally, before noticing the billet is empty, and amends it to “Come on -- I’ve some time. Let’s go to my quarters.”

“I -- certainly, Sir,” Will says. He gets up and pinches the bridge of his nose again, already moving on to the next problem as he follows Joseph out the door and toward the town. Should he find the telegraph office here? Should he send a telegram now or once he’s in England? Should he send one at all? --He must, it would be irresponsible not to. What should he say.

Joseph is still quartered alone -- the replacement for Graham hasn’t yet been sent. There’s an empty bed and half the room is sparsely cluttered to compensate. Joseph is a very considerate bunkmate, Will thinks.

“We’ll be undisturbed until supper, no doubt,” Joseph says, needlessly clearing space at the table and pulling out a bottle of -- Will doesn’t even know what. He nods in response to it, though, and accepts the glass Joseph hands him with uncharacteristic nervousness -- he’s not sure why. Should he really be drinking when there’s so much to do?

“Right, Will,” Joseph says briskly. “What on earth is the matter?”

“Captain Richards informed me I’ve been granted a period of leave,” Will replies, falling back on the formal words to keep his tone even. “It begins tomorrow.”

Joseph looks a little startled. “So soon? They really haven’t given you any notice, have they?”

“They didn’t before,” Will says reasonably, even while the words splinter to pieces and scratch at his throat.

Joseph’s expression doesn’t change from polite interest, but Will can sense the sudden concerned focus anyway. “Drink that,” Joseph says to Will, pointing to the glass he’s holding. “Give yourself a minute.”

Will makes a face, but complies with the politely-worded order. He coughs at the burn. At least it is a tangible sensation on which to concentrate, he thinks, and then carefully tries not to keep thinking. He will send a telegram when he disembarks. It will reach Burnley faster than he will, after all, and give them plenty of time to prepare. --Should they wish it, at any rate.

But all of that is not what is most important right now. What is most important is Tom. (Who is, Will is absurdly amused to note, engaged in pulling progressively more animated faces, which he exchanges with his brother.) 

Will coughs again. The brotherly interaction helps him as he drags himself out of the frantic cycle of his thoughts, marshalling them to what is here in front of him. “I can’t take Tom with me,” he says, interrupting whatever strange communication is going on between Tom and Joseph. 

“What?” Joseph says, startled. Tom’s face falls, then settles into a more grim neutrality. 

“You remember what Tom said to the Grim in the graveyard?” Will asks. When Joseph nods, he continues. “I think that taking him home -- him seeing me at home, at any rate -- might trigger the Grim to try again. Since Tom will have seen me out of the war -- technically.”

“But you’re not -- oh,” Joseph says, grasping it faster than Tom. “Damn. Truly?”

“I still think we can try it,” Tom mutters, disgruntled. 

Will shares an unhappy look with him. It will be hard. He’s been clinging to Tom’s presence for so long he doesn’t want to think of what will happen when Tom isn’t in range -- or when Will can’t risk pulling him closer. But it is _too dangerous._

Tom makes a face at him, seeing the rebuke Will isn’t saying. “Fine,” he says, grudgingly. “I know, I understand.”

Will rubs at his eyes and puts the empty glass on the table. He waves Joseph off when Joseph makes to refill it; one is enough to mute the sharper anxieties, but two will leave him useless. He simply doesn’t have Joseph’s tolerance yet.

“What we need to do is talk about how you can anchor Tom,” Will says, getting to the heart of the matter. “Truthfully, I’m not sure how much you can do in that regard, but -- well, he at least has an attachment to you, enough to help him stay --” Will thinks for a moment for the right word. “-- together, if that makes sense.”

“It doesn’t,” Joseph says, but he is patient. He waits for Will to continue.

“Tom,” Will says slowly, after a minute’s worth of consideration. “I don’t know if you want to be here for this conversation . . . ”

“I think I’d better be, if it’s about me,” Tom says, folding his arms stubbornly. 

“Right,” Will says, and rubs at his eyes again. These two will be the death of him. He’ll have to choose his words wisely -- though he hasn’t the _time --_ but never mind that. “I -- we -- don’t know for certain why Tom is here, only that he is.”

“I _told_ you --” Tom starts, annoyed now.

“I know,” Will says sharply, cutting him off. “I’m getting to that.” He turns to Joseph again. “We’ve talked about Tom’s decision -- his promise, or, or -- you know. I think Mackenzie didn’t make one -- he didn’t feel like Hepburn needed his help in the same way -- and that is why his ghost ultimately left.”

“All right,” Joseph says when Will pauses, expecting him to acknowledge this. “I believe I’m following. Tom made his decision to stay with you and to help you, correct?”

“Obviously,” Tom says, rolling his eyes. This is how Will knows that Tom is as on edge as Will is -- Tom usually doesn’t needle his brother when there isn’t a use for it. 

“If I’m not around, I don’t know what will happen,” Will says tightly, catching the feeling. He starts to feel his lungs constricting again and takes the deepest breath he can pull in to attempt to counteract it. “It’s a promise that’s anchored on me.”

“So maybe I should go with you anyway,” Tom bursts out, heatedly. “I’ll fight the Grim -- I’ve done it once, and I can do it again --”

“--or maybe I should just waive my leave home,” Will snaps back just as swiftly. “Or spend it in Calais trading away the rest of my medals for wine, Tom! _I will not risk you.”_

Both Tom and Joseph are staring at him. Will shuts his mouth with an audible click and counts very, very slowly to ten. 

“Will,” Tom says after a long moment, tone wary.

“No,” Will interrupts flatly, glaring at him. “Don’t even start.”

“So what we need to do is ensure that I can act as Tom’s anchor,” Joseph says adroitly, steering the conversation back where it should go. 

Will would breathe a sigh of relief if he could get his lungs to open up a bit more. He turns to Joseph. “Yes,” Will says, reaching for the opening Joseph is offering. “I don’t think we’ve the time to test it, but maybe I can wait a day --”

“No,” Tom says, stubbornly. 

Will glances at Tom, ready to interrupt, and stops, reconsidering. He knows what Tom looks like when he’s got the bit between his teeth, and Tom looks far too -- secure? reasonable? to be that right now. Tom is absolutely certain about this. 

“I _know_ Joe can act as my anchor, Will,” Tom says firmly. “You don’t need to stay -- and I will not be happy if you do,” he warns, seeing Will open his mouth and assuming Will is going to protest.

Joseph, meanwhile, looks as though he is insulted and trying to hide it, sloppily. “I know I’m new to this, but I hardly think I’ll do anything to risk him,” he tells Will, only barely keeping the condemnation out of his tone. 

Will feels his hackles rise and smoothes them down forcibly. Joseph is Tom’s older brother; it is natural that he feels he knows Tom well, and it is also a grave insult to imply Joseph wouldn’t know what to do. Never mind that Will never actually implied such a thing; Joseph would remember that when his temper cooled.

“All right,” Will says, attempting to be placating. His tone must grate a little too harshly, because he doesn’t see the stubbornness let up out of either of them. “I understand. So what you need to know is -- no, don’t interrupt me Joseph, I don’t mean it like that. It’s about ghosts.”

Joseph, whose face was darkening, closes his mouth with a snap when he realises Will isn’t lecturing him about how to take care of his brother. Tom stays stubborn. Will ignores him for now; that doesn’t matter as much as making sure Joseph understands.

“When ghosts are disoriented -- when they are upset or start losing themselves -- it’s best to pull them into an object,” Will says. “You’ve been practicing that. It’s useful to know, because you don’t need them clustering around you on a battlefield. But there’s another side to it, and that’s in the preservation of the spirit.”

Both Joseph and Tom are looking more interested than insulted, now, which Will takes as a positive sign. 

That’s good. It’s good because Will isn’t entirely comfortable with what he’s about to do; he takes a deep breath. Will feels his hands shake as he pulls out his tin and does his best to still them. “In case you go back to the line,” he starts with, but then stops, looking down at it. He has to select the right words, and isn’t totally sure what they are, yet, because he’s never had to articulate this for anyone but himself. 

Will buys himself some time; he opens the tin and pulls out the things he will need with him -- the letters. He leaves the photos; he knows Tom appreciates looking at them from time to time. Will wets his lips and tries again, shutting it with a quiet _snick._ “In case you go back to the line -- there’s something that sets Tom off, sometimes.”

Will sees Tom blanch in the corner of his eye. Will holds the tin out to Joseph. His hand trembles slightly when Joseph doesn’t immediately accept it. 

“He still won’t tell me what it is,” Will says, pushing it back, determined to get through this. “But I’ve seen him nearly shred himself to bits over it. If it -- if he gets like that, put him in this. It will help.”

“Will, you can’t leave that here,” Tom says. He sounds dreadful, both obviously relieved and torn over the guilt of relieving Will of his most prized possession. 

“I can and I am,” Will says simply. He shakes it, sharply. “And effing take it already, Joseph, d’you want my arm to fall off?”

Joseph makes the most incredible face -- he never seems to know what to do with Will when Will starts speaking as freely as Tom -- but takes the tin. 

“No, you’ve got to -- stick it in your inner pocket,” Tom tells him, with the most peculiar tone when Joseph starts putting it in his uniform pocket. “You can’t lose this.” 

Will tucks the letters back in his breast-pocket. He feels even more nervous now. Maybe he can find another tin as a makeshift protector, at least until he gets home? He’s already lost his original letters, the ones from before April, and Ellie is going to give him hell over that when he gets back.

When he gets back. Will sucks in a breath and puts his head in his hands. When he gets back home. He’s going home.

“Will?” he hears from both Joseph and Tom.

“It’s fine,” he says thickly. “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

~ * ~

_December 24th, 1917 -- Burnley, England_

Will arrives in Burnley on the afternoon train, which pulls into the station at half past three. He feels the exhaustion in his bones even as the slow-churning mix of adrenaline and anxiety keep sleep from being even a remote possibility. Early the morning of the 23rd, Will was standing on the quay, waiting to board the next troop ship after he spent the whole night on a convoy headed out to Calais, and while the journey across the Channel was uneventful, it was by no means restful. Will doesn’t handle being on ships well, and he was traveling over with Captain Hallewell, who was also heading home for leave. The man insisted on discussing the possibilities of future football matches and gossiping about past matches he’d seen; Will found it rather tiresome, but he did try to be polite about it. 

The trains from Southampton were running late enough that Will was able to catch the evening one after a quick stop at a closing sweets shop and a telegraph office. He had sent a telegram that would be delivered either early tomorrow morning or later that evening. He does not know if his family would be on hand to greet him at the station or if he will have to get home on his own. 

Now, as the train makes its squealing stop into the station, Will is confronted with the fact that he doesn’t know what he will face at home. He feels both more and less of who he was than ever before. He remembers the last leave he had, when he was still stunned by the carnage of the Somme, and though he doesn’t remember Thiepval to this day, he remembers each moment of that time at home, afterwards, vividly. It was . . . well. This time, it will be better.

Will gets off the train, slinging his pack over his back as he disembarks. Only once he is on the platform does he dare look around.

There is a swirl of people in the station. Some eye him with obvious interest, but theirs are not familiar faces. Down at the end of the platform, though, he sees a lone figure who hones in on him; there are no little ones. It is not his wife.

It is his mother. Her expression of anxious hope turns into a relieved smile even as he watches. She has aged since his last visit home. Will hurries over to her to cut down on the distance she is already crossing at a swift clip and pulls her into an embrace.

“Will,” she says. She sounds like she is about to cry but he sees her pull it in as she leans back to look at him properly. Then she hugs him again and kisses both his cheeks, though she has to stand on her tiptoes to do so.

“Hello, Mum,” he says. “Have you come by yourself? Where’s Papa and Ellie -- the children?”

His mother wipes at her eyes and says, “They are at home. Hortensia has been feeling poorly -- don’t you worry, she’s fine, it’s just a cold. Ellie is preparing dinner and Calpurnia is keeping your father company. Ellie wanted to come but we only got your telegram this morning -- you should have let us know earlier that you were coming, dear.”

“I found out in the afternoon on the 22nd,” Will tells her, apologising obliquely. “I wasn’t able to send a telegram until yesterday, when I arrived in Southampton.”

She leads him away from the station and he keeps pace with her as they walk home. It’s not far, though the ice in the streets -- it looks like there was some snowfall a day or two ago -- does reduce their speed; he could go faster, but his mother clearly cannot. He offers her his arm so that she has something to balance against on the icier patches of pavement.

Will wonders when she got so old. Her hair is entirely grey, now, and although it was always light to begin with, the color more closely resembles ash than cornsilk in the late afternoon twilight. The lines around her nose and mouth have deepened considerably, and there is a slight stoop to her that he does not remember seeing a year ago.

His mother squeezes his elbow as they walk down the streets Will spent his childhood scrambling around. All the lads these days are gone; and no children are out now. Christmas Eve is approaching and the streets, normally bustling, are quieting even as they continue. 

“We’ve been rushing about today, trying to find some things for you last minute,” his mother tells him as they go. She doesn’t say it to condemn him -- it is just a matter of course. Will appreciates it. “There’s not much left in the shops at this time of year, but we were able to find some cinnamon for you at the least; I didn’t tell you, but Ellie is in a frenzy trying to find a suitable recipe for it.”

“She doesn’t need to do that,” Will says quietly.

His mother catches hold of his hand and squeezes it tightly. “Of course not,” she tells him, a little sharply. “But we love you, dear. We want to do it.”

The rest of the journey is quiet; his mother lets him have his thoughts. Perhaps she can read his uncertainty at being back. But then, she was always the one to listen more than speak in their household; Will knows he takes after her in that respect. In any case -- while he would normally appreciate it, now he wishes she were more chatty -- it would distract him.

Or maybe he just wishes Tom were with him. Tom would be asking questions about everything and offering funny observations; Tom would hound him with thousands of overly-nosy inquiries about the town, the environs, the walk. Will knows Halifax is not that far from Burnley, but it is far enough that Tom likely has never visited. 

“Why did Papa stay home?” he asks abruptly as the thought comes to him. Normally his father would be the first to greet him; Papa could be polite when needed (it was essential for a tailor’s business), but he made no bones of his priorities. Will is his only child. 

“Oh, he had some business to attend to,” his mother says. “A rush order for some gentlewoman. It was for her husband off at the Front, or he wouldn’t have bothered -- but he felt he must try. You know how it is.”

Will feels that there is something not right about that, but then they turn the last corner and his family’s shop is there before him. The shop itself is closed for business, but the upstairs and the back are blazing with light. In the window, he catches a glimpse of a woman in the kitchen; his heart finds itself in his throat.

The last time he came home, he wasn’t able to willingly move towards his family. He had been paralysed by the horror of the Somme and bewildered by how Burnley had both changed drastically and yet stayed exactly the same. This time, Will is seized by a wild elation. He lets his mother’s arm drop, apologising in an afterthought as he strides forward at a pace better suiting him around the back. He swings open the door and doesn’t stop to pull off his boots before he bursts into the kitchen.

His daughter is there, he sees at once, sitting with Papa, who is at the table with a cutting board in front of him. Ellie is in front of the oven, in the act of pulling something out. Whatever it is, it smells heavenly, mingled as it is with the scent of the festive pine decorations.

Hortensia -- no, Hortensia is ill; Calpurnia is the one with Papa -- Calpurnia shrieks at his sudden appearance and hides behind Papa. Papa looks up and his face breaks into a tremendous smile -- but -- Will is thrown off by -- it’s just. Mother has aged, fine, but _Papa --_ and Calpurnia’s shriek -- Will almost doesn’t know where to look. He loses his momentum and finds himself frozen in place, unsure. 

Ellie sails to his rescue. She has put down whatever she pulled out of the oven hastily onto the hob and hasn’t bothered to remove the oven mitts; she comes up to him and cradles his face in her oven-warmed hands, pulling his attention firmly on her. Her eyes reflect the green of her dress. There are tears in them.

“Will,” she says, and loses her words. It would make him smile -- sharp-tongued and quick-witted as Ellie is, she is rarely lost for words -- if he wasn’t feeling the same way, as torn as he is between banked anxiety and a reckless sense of joy.

“Ellie,” he says, and though he means to be gentle, he fears he pulls her in too roughly. The feel of her pressed up against him very nearly undoes him entirely, and he buries his face in her neck to take her in while she chokes out a laugh and twines her hands in the straps of his pack and pulls him closer, incredibly close, kissing his hair and his ear and the side of his forehead that is within her reach.

Around them, he hears the hubbub of Mother coming in, murmuring something cheerful to -- whomever. Papa says something and laughs. 

After a long moment, they are broken apart by Mother firmly shooing Calpurnia up to Will. He pulls away from Ellie but doesn’t entirely let her go -- he can’t convince his fingers to loosen where they’ve knotted themselves in her sleeve -- and kneels down as best he can to greet his younger daughter.

“Hello, Callie,” he tells her gently. She isn’t familiar to him -- she was naught but three when he saw her last -- and it hurts to see her face twisted in uncertainty and reluctance; but at the sound of his voice, her expression seems to clear a little. 

“Papa?” she asks, hesitant, and looks to her mother. 

“This is your Papa,” Ellie says, chidingly. “He’s home from the war, remember?”

“Hello, dear,” Will says when she looks at him again. 

His daughter is almost five, now. She would only have vague memories of him from the October before last. But with her mother’s vote of confidence, she screws up her face and solemnly offers him a hard kiss right beneath his eye. Will is able to smile, now, though he’s certain he feels wetness trickle from the corners of his eyes. 

“Why is he crying?” Calpurnia whispers loudly to her mother. Will reaches out with his free hand and cups the side of her head. She looks just like Ellie. 

Ellie is kneeling with him now, and pulls Calpurnia forward so that she will let Will embrace her. This time, Will fiercely reins himself in so that he is nothing but gentle.

“He’s happy, darling,” Ellie tells her. She wipes some of the tears from his eyes even as hers spill over as well. “He’s happy to be home with us.”

It takes some time, but at last everyone is greeted properly. Hortensia, when she is woken, remembers him; and her ill-temper comes more from her temperature than any fear of who Will has become. She blinks and smiles at him and he remembers the first time he held her -- nearly seven years ago, now -- and it is like the sun has come out from behind the clouds in his chest.

Mother and Ellie turn him away from helping with anything in the kitchen. Ellie banishes him to the water closet and instructs him to put on something that isn’t his uniform. Thoughtfully, she has left one of his old outfits laid out on the bed. Exchanging them for his uniform is the first hurdle -- he finds his old clothes don’t fit the same way, settling oddly on his frame. 

Will feels deeply unsettled by this, unsure if it is because it reminds him he is not the same man as when he left, or if it is because there is nothing more disdainful than a tailor who can’t properly fit their own clothes. He almost expects a scolding from his father when he comes back downstairs, but Papa -- though his eyes flick critically up Will’s frame -- does not offer a rebuke. And now Will feels all wrong-footed. 

He sits bewildered through dinner, feeling out of place the entire way through. The conversation meanders. Although Will dreads it will be full of questions he cannot answer for fear of exposing too much -- too much of the war, of him, of the horrors he’s had to commit, to survive, to live through -- it is not. It is light, filled with gossip from the day and stories of recent events at home. The casual confirmation between his parents and his wife of previously-discussed plans that he was not party to jars him, reminding him of his absence. 

Ellie, bless her, offers some comfort -- she rests her left hand on his knee under the table through the meal. It helps ground him, a little, tethering him to the reality of this moment -- reminding him this isn’t a dream. And Will has had dreams like this. He has dreamed of eating supper normally, surrounded by his family. He has dreamed of being home and has woken up to hell for nearly all of the last three years.

Mother insists on offering him second and third helpings, though Will can barely manage to fit the first portion in. He eats more than anyone else at the table, but everyone dissembles and deflects when he tries to insist Papa be served before Will is. By the end of it, he is only desperately thankful when Mother gives him a stern look and strictly states that dessert is being saved for the dinner tomorrow, sugar being short as it is, though she assures him it will be just as good as he remembers.

“But now,” Papa says, when Mother has finished and Calpurnia is squirming. “I think Calpurnia is staying with me for a while longer -- is that so?” he asks Calpurnia. She sits up and beams, nodding. “Excellent, my dear, I know just what help I need from you next. --As I was saying, Calpurnia is staying with me and Hortensia needs to go back to bed -- why don’t you two settle her upstairs while your mother does the washing up?”

Will might have protested -- he is all turned about, now, and it is deeply grating to be treated as though he is a guest in his own home -- but Ellie discreetly brings her heel down upon his foot and he nearly bites his tongue through with how it makes him jump. When he looks at her, she is already answering for them. “Are you certain? It wouldn’t be any trouble --”

“Of course not, dear, go on,” Mother says, rising from the table. She kisses Hortensia’s forehead and wrinkles her nose. “You’ve some time yet before you are feeling better, missy.”

And everyone is standing. Will looks around before getting to his feet as well. 

Hortensia settles into bed with a drowsy murmur, tired from dinner. But she insists that Will stay with her for a few minutes, asking him about whether he was getting enough to eat -- she’d seen the posters plastered by the shops in the market about saving bread for the war effort. Ellie leaves after a moment, her hand trailing across his shoulders as she goes. 

Bread isn’t an interesting subject, thankfully, so it isn’t long before Hortensia is sound asleep. She lies there, breathing quietly, and Will thinks of all the men he’s left lying behind him, who were not. He leaves, taking care to let the door close soundlessly.

Will has realised, by now, what his parents are attempting to do. Though he feels the urge to return downstairs, a long-ingrained instinct to help with the washing-up or any last-minute work for commissions in the workroom, Will goes instead to his bedroom. Their bedroom. 

Ellie is waiting for him. Her hair is down; she is brushing it out, but is not in any other way in a state of dishabille. Something curls in his stomach, low and dark, at the sight. When she looks up at him, it is like the whole world holds its breath.

He goes to her and reaches out to feel her hair, cup her face. And then he’s not quite sure what has happened, only that he can’t seem to get enough of her. He feels her hands on him, tugging at his clothes and pulling him closer; they cannot find the time or willingness to separate and do things sensibly, and he is utterly, utterly lost. 

The first time is clumsy and fumbling. They haven’t bothered turning down the lamp and Will is treated to the sight of his wife, panting, eyes dark and intent as she wrenches at his belt and then his trousers while he hikes up her skirts and peels her out of her underthings and then they are close, so close, and it is like Will has never left; and when they breathe it is each other’s breath and there is no separating them -- none -- and _Will --_

The second time is not long after. Ellie patiently waits with him cradled between her thighs, stroking his hair and whispering into his ear as he comes back around. He lies with his head on her breast, lazily unbuttoning her shirtwaist and slowly divesting her of her remaining clothes until he can see all of her. That’s when she pushes him ungraciously onto his back and rises up over him, slick and hot and demanding, until --

Afterwards, Will finally takes off the rest of the ill-fitting clothes. He extinguishes the lamp and joins his wife where she is curled up under the blankets, stubbing toes on forgotten furniture as he goes. The two of them lie closely-entwined in the dark, listening to the sounds of the household as it settles while the evening grows long and fades into the dark.

The third time is much later, and achingly quiet. She sobs with the release of it. 

He sleeps well that night.

~ * ~

_December 24th, 1917 -- Saint-Omer, France_

Joseph stares into the drink he is having at the officers’ club and finds himself reflecting that, honestly, he is in the most unsettling sort of situation. Not the festive celebrations that are currently entertaining the officers here -- there’s a roar from one side of the room that he doesn’t bother to look at -- but his personal situation.

Tom is his brother. Joseph loved -- loves Tom. They grew up together, and were each other’s worst enemy and most capable accomplice all through their childhood and into their teens. Until Joseph went to Public School, and Tom did, too; and even then, in the summers, they were nearly inseparable. It drove Mother mad, it did.

But -- Joseph has spent much of the last year believing Tom was dead. Joseph cannot even number the nights he came in from the officer’s club only to find himself uselessly listless, frozen in a fugue of grief at the knowledge that his brother was gone forever. He cannot count the number of bottles he drank dry or the volume of tears he shed, whether he attempted to rein them in or not. 

He can’t remember how many times he started and stopped writing that first, terrible letter home. 

Joseph does remember the grief. It is still fresh in his mind -- the heft and weight of it, the way it would sometimes crush over him until he could do nothing but put one foot in front of another. The way Joseph had to learn to wall it off, separate himself from it, in a manner that was both more demanding and ultimately less useful than the ways he was able to distance himself from the deaths of his men. Joseph remembers this the best, because up until a few weeks ago, he was still struggling with it.

But the thing is -- Tom isn’t dead, not really. He’s _here._ Joseph is watching him walk through some of his fellow officers, seeing if he can cause them to spill their drinks _right now._ Tom is here, and even if Joseph can’t touch him or embrace him or tackle him or tussle with him mercilessly, Joseph _can_ talk to Tom and he _can_ trade all those brotherly quips and jokes and barbs, and Joseph _can_ read through letters from home with Tom and discuss their contents in meaningful ways, and it’s like his brother is _actually back with him._

But --

Well. Joseph feels a chill settle over him; he is still afraid to remember it, truthfully.

The Grim . . . Father breeds dogs, and Joseph -- well, he learned, even if it wasn’t his passion as much as it was Father’s. Or Tom’s, for that matter. But Joseph knows dogs, knows hounds, and this one -- this is a hound that would track you down. It would hunt you down for as long as it needed to, and not only would it track you down: it would be the first to leap in for the kill. This was a predator that needed no human companionship to be effective, no matter how friendly it appeared. 

And Schofield . . .

Joseph shivers a little, feeling gooseflesh creep up his neck as the hair on the back of it stands straight up. Schofield greeted it like a friend, without fear -- and not the lack of fear that came from ignorance, but the lack of fear in knowing, accepting, respecting, and being its equal. Schofield is a gentle man, but there is something in him that is far more terrifying than Joseph dares to fathom.

\--Nevertheless. Joseph knows Schofield is not the threat Joseph needs to worry about. 

What is worrisome is Tom. Joesph doesn’t want to think about it, not in the slightest, but he knows how dangerous hope and unadulterated joy can be in a war. It can lead a man to draw the wrong conclusions and make foolish decisions, and so, though Joseph is loathe to do it, he forces himself to face reality from the start: Tom will not be here forever. Joseph thinks, possibly, that even Schofield doesn’t know how long Tom will be here, but Joseph suspects -- and he thinks Schofield suspects, too -- that Tom’s days are sharply numbered. 

So Joseph wants to enjoy the time he has left with his brother, now that he’s been given this second chance. He hopes, even, that with Schofield absent, he and Tom can get properly reacquainted and maybe even get up to some tricks, just to see if they can. (Joseph knows that is _wildly_ irresponsible, but there are some of his fellow officers he would positively _love_ to have a go at.)

Joseph makes up his mind as the noise on the other side of the room ratchets up. It’s a bit early to leave the club, perhaps -- there are many entertainments planned for the evening -- but he should really spend time with Tom, where they can both speak freely. And he’d rather celebrate the holiday that way, anyway.

He makes his goodbyes, tugging at Tom to get his attention. Tom brightens. “Oh, good,” he says with enthusiasm when he’s closer. “Family time for the holiday.”

“We certainly won’t get a chance to celebrate tomorrow,” Joseph comments when they are out the door and alone.

Tom scowls next to him. It is fascinating to Joseph -- Tom still strides along as though he can touch the ground. Weren’t ghosts supposed to hover? “Orders to move out on Christmas Day -- that’s rank,” Tom complains. “They should’ve let the men have the day off, too.”

Joseph waits until some tipsy Privates -- who straighten up and attempt to act soberly -- pass before responding. “We’ve had a good three weeks, at least.” Privately, though, he agrees with Tom.

“Well,” Tom says, clearly making an effort, “not much we can do about that. But --” he flashes a smile at Joe. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any of Mother’s eggnog hidden away, do you?”

“My God, you never change, do you?” Joseph snickers. Tom’s love for the stuff was legendary; when he’d first tasted some at dinner, back when he was 9, Tom waited until everyone else was asleep and snuck into the kitchen, drinking the entirety of the leftovers. They’d found him snoring on the floor the next morning, brought low by the brandy Mother’s recipe called for. And every year since then, Tom had demanded that he have at least a little every night for as long as it lasted.

“I dream about it sometimes,” Tom says earnestly. “The taste of home -- and Christmas. No better way to spend it.”

“If you come with me on my next leave, I’ll ask her to make some special,” Joseph promises. “If all this anchoring business really works.”

Tom’s face clouds a moment, but before Joseph can ask, it’s gone. “You’d better hold your end of that -- I’ll haunt you in every meeting you’ve got if you fall through,” Tom threatens.

“Oi, I keep my promises.”

“Like the time you promised I’d get to name the pups from the new litter when I were 10?”

“That doesn’t count. Father is the one who made me name them.”

“You promised you’d let me pick!”

The bickering lasts intermittently through returning to Joseph’s room and as he gets out the traveling chess set Mother gifted him at the start of the war. It’s not Tom’s favorite, but it’s an easier game for the two of them to play than cards. 

Sometime later, as the game winds down, Tom’s mood shifts. Joseph knows his brother and knows well the way he can’t hide his moodiness -- Tom was always awful at reining in his expressions. Watching him now, Joseph thinks that Tom has picked up a few tricks -- he’s certainly subtler than he was before -- but whatever it is does seem to be weighing on him heavily. 

“Is it that I’ve got you on the ropes?” Joseph asks him lightly.

“Hmm?” Tom looks at the board. “What?”

“Your mood. You’re bothered by something.”

“Oh, no.” Tom cracks a smile. “I’m bloody awful at this game, you’ve always got me on the ropes.”

Joseph snorts, because it’s true; Tom never really had the patience to sort through all the possibilities. But he isn’t so terrible as all that. And anyway -- “If it’s not that, what’s the matter?” he asks.

Tom stares down at the board for a moment before he looks up and meets Joseph’s eyes. He squares his shoulders. “Well,” he says slowly, “it’s just that I’m sorry about -- you know -- dying. And all of that. Leaving you and Mum and Father in a lurch.”

Joseph blinks and leans back, a little stunned. He hadn’t expected something like that. 

“I mean, I did see some of it --” Tom fidgets, and Joseph realises, exasperatedly, that his brother probably had been haunting him at odd hours all through those first few months in the spring and summer. “--and I just. I know you didn’t take it well. I’m sorry.”

Joseph thinks about what to say to that. There are many things, honestly, but he rapidly dismisses most of them, watching Tom’s expression hold firm. In the end, there’s only really one thing that needs to be said.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Joseph tells him at last. Even if his voice does crack a little. “You were being the better man.” And then, seeing Tom look away, Joseph adds, “It’s not your fault that damned pilot couldn’t rise to the occasion, too.”

Tom snorts and scrubs his sleeve across his face, but Joseph sees the smile for what it is. 

~ * ~

_December 26th, 1917 -- Burnley, England_

Will finds his father alone in the workroom on the morning of his second day at home.

Papa is sitting on his stool, squinting at the pieces of a jacket sleeve; he is checking them against a list of measurements and muttering calculations under his breath. He is dissatisfied. He has not noticed Will and so Will is free to observe his father without his mother or Ellie distracting or diverting him. 

Mother has aged since Will left. But Will looks at his father and sees, now, the faint tremor in his hands. Will hears the shortness of Papa’s breath. He notes, too, how Papa never stands anywhere for very long, but remains seated, with Mother and Ellie and the girls attending to him so that he need not get up.

Papa is dying. 

Will steps into the room, making his presence known. “How long has it been?” he asks quietly, picking up one of the stools left by Mother or Uncle Robert and setting it down so he can sit next to his father.

His father doesn’t even look up from the pieces, though his hands are still for the barest of moments. “What on earth are you talking about?” he asks instead, crossly. “I’m in the middle of checking these figures, you know. I raised you not to interrupt a tailor at his work, did I not?”

Will ignores this. “Should I ask how long you have got left, instead?”

Papa was always the most temperamental member of the family. Grandfather, back when Will was very young, always deplored it: “A temperamental tailor takes no business,” his grandfather would argue with Papa, as so much of a tailor’s work depended on their reputation for diplomatic discretion. Papa would laugh and argue that so long as he kept his temper out of the business of the day-to-day and reserved it for private life, he would do just fine. 

He and Ellie had tremendous arguments, back when Will first married her, Will recalls, inanely; rows that lasted for hours, sometimes days. Will always felt privately it was because Ellie was the first proper contender Papa had at home, as Mother and Will both were not nearly so inclined to be disagreeable. 

Papa looks at him at last. Will sees clearly the deep fatigue that has settled into his father’s bones. In his expression, Will sees sadness -- resignation -- acceptance. 

Papa does not rise to the bait. He sets the pieces down and looks at Will and sighs. “Let’s go make a cup of tea,” he says heavily. “We’ll need it.”

It is cancer, Papa tells him, when they are back in the workroom. It has been growing within him for a long time. Since before the Somme, although they only found out before Will came home the first time.

“We were planning on telling you then,” Papa says, and hesitates. His spoon rattles in the cup clumsily as he stirs the cream and lemon into it. He doesn’t say anything else. 

Will feels ill. He understands what his father leaves unsaid. 

Will remembers coming home from the Somme. At the time, Will’s immediate impressions had been that everything was wrong, so wrong; that Burnley was impossibly altered and horribly empty, with many of the local men killed or held up in hospitals in France. His family had tried to ask him about his experiences, even though he hadn’t been with the local Pals regiment -- no one knew what had happened, with the censorship, and everyone was desperate for any information. But Will had been absolutely unable to communicate, drifting through his time on leave in a foggy haze. 

With hindsight, and in seeing it in others since then, Will knows now that he must have seemed horribly changed, jumping at every unexpected sound and overreacting to the most mundane things. He vividly remembers shouting at his father over a smashed teacup on the second day. It had been an accident -- but it startled him so badly. He remembers he made Calpurnia -- three years old, then -- cry from the noise, and he’d had to go home early to sit in his and Ellie’s bedroom until Will could keep from screaming his throat raw.

Will wonders how much his family had talked, working out how to manage him. He wonders when they made the choice not to tell him. He wonders if they were right.

“So this is why Ellie decided to move in with you,” he says instead. 

“Your mother asked her to. And truthfully, I preferred it as well.” Papa smiles wistfully. “Your daughters have been a delight to have underfoot. Not nearly as quiet as you, I can tell you that!”

Will stares down at his untouched cup of tea. It steams gently. He breathes it in and imagines it; from what Will has seen over the past day, it is already apparent that Papa has been teaching the girls some tricks of the trade, just as he taught Will. It aches in him to think that Will won’t ever be able to be a part of that.

“How long?” Will asks quietly.

Papa looks out the door of the workroom onto the shop floor. “Not long,” he says, reluctantly. “I was told only until Christmas, by the doctor.” His posture stiffens and he turns to look Will right in the eye. “I was determined to hold out until you came back home. I knew it couldn’t be long until your next leave.”

Will covers his face with his hands. 

~ * ~

_December 27th, 1917 -- Manchester, England_

Captain Hallewell had told Will where he would be staying throughout the holidays on the long journey home, in between all the chatter about football. Though he hadn’t given a precise address, it is not hard for Will to track him down, even in Manchester -- there are only so many officers returning home, and only so many who are from Manchester. Will takes the train early the next morning, ducking out the back door when his mother isn’t looking, and needs but an hour to acquire the address.

He is only slightly surprised to find he is directed to a butcher’s shop near the city centre. Captain Hallewell was not from the same social class as Joseph Blake was, Will knew abstractly, but somehow -- perhaps because his most frequent association with a commissioned officer was with Joseph Blake -- Will did not necessarily apply that to the Captain. He feels slightly unsettled at the contradiction in his expectations and in the reality before him.

But he is here for a reason, after all. He goes into the shop.

There are no customers at the moment. The man behind the counter is much older, and has the same likeness of face. Will thinks he must be the Captain’s father. Will nods to him. “Mr Hallewell?” he asks politely.

The man looks him over. Will sees his eyes linger on Will’s haircut and stature, the stiff attention Will has automatically assumed. “Yes,” he says, correctly ascertaining that Will is not there to purchase anything. “What d’you want?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was hoping to speak to Captain Hallewell, if he were here.”

Mr Hallewell nods and turns to the open door behind the meat counter. “Jack!” he bellows. Will can’t hide how he jumps. “There’s a man here for you!”

“Coming!” Captain Hallewell shouts from the back, muffled. After some thumping noises, he comes into the shop proper in a moment, wiping bloodied hands off on his apron. 

He does not recognise Will at first, dressed as he is in civilian clothes. Will almost doesn’t recognise Hallewell, either, but then he does -- he feels a flash of relief at seeing something familiar. Will salutes out of reflex. “Very sorry to disturb you, Captain,” he says.

“At ease,” Hallewell says, looking equally bemused. He looks down at his apron. “Almost didn’t recognise you -- come on in to the back, would you?”

Will hesitates, surprised by the offer.

“Friend of yours?” Mr Hallewell asks, meticulously sharpening a cleaver. 

“Sergeant Schofield, Sir,” Will says, feeling chastised. He manages to restrain himself from saluting; he sees where Hallewell gets it. 

“Go on, then,” Mr Hallewell says. Will follows the Captain to the back.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Hallewell offers, pulling off the apron. Seeing him out of uniform is -- very strange. Will decides he is going to ignore it. 

“You don’t need to go to the trouble --”

“I was about to have one myself. Let me pour you a cup.”

Like the Schofields’ tailor shop, there is a kitchen in the back behind the shop proper, though the whole building is narrower. A tiny staircase in the corner shows where the upper floors lie; it looked like a three-story building from the outside. On the counter beside the hob is a teapot with two cups set out; Hallewell reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a third. 

He nods to the small kitchen table. “I’d ask you up to the parlour, but . . .”

“No, no,” Will says firmly. He takes his unease in hand and shoves it aside, sitting where the Captain indicated. This is a warmer welcome than he has any right to expect. “Really, you are going to too much trouble.”

Hallewell raises his eyebrows as he looks Will up and down. “I’ve never known you to be one to cause trouble,” he says mildly. “I imagine whatever brings you here is very important indeed.”

Will takes the tea that is offered to him and sips it as the Captain takes the seat opposite him. It isn’t scalding, so Hallewell wasn’t lying when he said he was about to have some. 

“Yes,” Will says. He tries to go on, and finds he has lost his words.

Captain Hallewell slurps loudly at his tea. 

Absurdly, this is what breaks Will’s paralysis. The words spill out. “I know I’ve -- I wasn’t sure whom to speak with --” he starts, and stops; reins it in. Breathe. The worst that will happen is that his request will be denied. “I need to request an extension of my leave.”

Hallewell’s expression becomes one of professional consideration. “For what reason?” he asks, and though he isn’t wearing his uniform, Will doesn’t need the tripled stars of his cuffs to know he is speaking to someone used to commanding men. 

“My father is dying,” Will says formally. “My mother and my wife need my assistance setting his affairs in order.”

Whatever Hallewell had assumed, he clearly wasn’t expecting _that._ It knocks him out of the professional reserve he had assumed moments ago. He coughs, in the middle of taking a sip, and hastily sets his cup down, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Oh,” he says. “I’m -- I’m very sorry to hear that. Is there -- do you have any other family members to help with it?”

“I have an uncle,” Will says quietly, “but the responsibility is mine.”

“Quite right, absolutely.” Hallewell leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. He thinks for a moment. Will occupies himself with his tea.

“I can offer you another ten days,” Hallewell says at last. “You were due to return when -- the second of January, correct? Let’s make it the 12th.”

Will breathes out sharply in relief. “Thank you, Sir,” he says. 

Hallewell smiles a little. “I’ll miss your company on the ride back over, but I’ll just have to make do, I suppose,” he says, intending it as a joke. “In any case, I’ll make sure Headquarters is made aware of the situation. I’d better give you written permission as well . . .”

By the time Will leaves, maybe fifteen minutes later, he has a folded-up sheet of paper with Captain Hallewell’s extension, noted and signed by Hallewell. He makes to reach for his tin -- but of course, he left it at the front with Joseph and Tom. 

\-- Tom. Will feels disquiet creep back in him at the thought. This extension will keep him from returning for longer; what if Tom isn’t able to handle it? What if --

\-- No. Will cannot think about that. He has a responsibility to his family. Tom was certain that Joseph could take Will’s place in anchoring him; Will must trust Tom’s assessment. 

If he doesn’t . . . 

Will feels a shudder ripple through him and senses that, should he go down that road, there is a vast chasm that threatens to swallow him whole. Will mustn’t think of Tom’s situation now. Grimly, Will puts the folded-up permission in his breast-pocket and makes for the train station.

He does not reach home until late in the afternoon. He recognises a few of the people out on the streets, but none who take more than one look at him before hurrying themselves along. The shop is open; Uncle Robert is manning it, Will can see through the windows, and it looks like one of his cousins is assisting. He goes around the back to the kitchen.

Hortensia is up, he sees, and primly helping with preparing dinner. Ellie is manning the hob. Hortensia’s face lights up; she drops the carrots she is scrubbing and comes over to give him a hug and a kiss, which he solemnly returns. 

“Back, are you?” Ellie asks, voice brittle. When he looks over, he sees she is standing straight and tall with her back still to him. 

“Tenny, why don’t you go see what your sister is up to?” Will suggests gently to their daughter.

She looks at him, and at Ellie, and makes a face. “Alright, Papa,” she says, and leaves the kitchen, trotting up the stairs. Will watches her go, feeling faintly amused. He may not have been around for the past three years of her life, but she knows when to get out between two commanding officers, he thinks.

He goes over to his wife, ticking through all the reasons she may be upset with him for. Many things, he supposes, but the most obvious would be how he disappeared that morning. When he remembers why, his mood sours. 

“Yes,” he says to her. She is staring into a pot of water that is starting to boil. “I had to go into Manchester.”

“It was that urgent, was it?” Her tone is sharp with fear, enough to cut glass.

Will knows -- he _knows --_ he should just say the truth. He opens his mouth, but what comes out instead is, “If I’d known about my father sooner, it wouldn’t have been.”

That gets a rise out of her -- or maybe it was in how he couldn’t keep from snapping back at her. She gives him an incredulous stare that she quickly modulates into something that is more unimpressed, but she is still too upset to do it well. That’s alright -- Will is upset as well.

“You should have let us know you were going!” she snarls, voice rising to a shout. 

“You should have let me know he was dying!” Will shouts back at her.

There’s a squeak from the staircase. Both of them look towards it sharply, and catch the sound of scurrying feet.

Will finds that he is breathing hard. His fists are clenched; he feels naked and unarmed, dressed as he is in misfit clothing, without a rifle in his hands. He breathes in sharply at the realisation and forces himself to _stop;_ he is not at the front, now. He _knows this._ He has been here before.

Just like that, the fury drains out of him. Will is tired of fighting the Germans; when his wife fights back because she is afraid of him -- afraid for him -- he is nauseated. He sits down gracelessly with a thump, not bothering to aim for a chair, and isn’t surprised when Ellie stays back, wary. 

He breathes for a moment. He is too ashamed to look at her, still; he puts his head in his hands instead.

“Captain Hallewell from my battalion -- of A Company -- is in Manchester,” he says to the darkness of his eyelids, seeing the knot in the floorboards if he thinks of seeing anything at all. “He granted me an extension of my leave. So I can help you and Mother with -- with my father.” 

There is a long silence.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, a little helplessly, because he isn’t sure what else to say. He feels his shoulders shake.

Footsteps: gentle, hesitant. Her hands coming to rest on his head, fingers carding through his hair. 

“Oh, William,” Ellie says, just as helplessly grieving as he is. “Oh, Will.” 

~ * ~

_December?/January ?, 1918 -- Passchendaele, Belgium_

Following Joe around is -- not nearly as entertaining as it used to be, honestly, Tom reflects glumly. For one thing, Joe is still doing his boring meetings. For another, now that he knows Tom is here -- and now that he periodically sees Tom doing something ridiculous, like testing how many times Tom can stroke one of the living ones’ ears until they get up and move -- Joe gets distracted very easily and distressed twice as fast. So it is not always fair to stay hanging around Joe for long.

But with Will gone -- well, it’s . . . there’s just nowhere _to_ go. Nothing really for Tom to do, either.

Tom is a lot of things. Headstrong, his mother complained; an arse, his brother swore; strong-minded, his father would say, diplomatically. And Tom knows all too well that, frequently, he doesn’t take the time to think things through as well as he should before he acts or speaks. 

But Tom is not a fool. 

Tom felt the listlessness settle into the centre of him within a day after Will left for Calais. Tom thinks privately that Will was (probably) right -- that Tom can’t actually really _be_ anchored by anyone but Will. That without him around, Tom is just -- he isn’t quite right. 

(Truthfully, Tom has known -- or at the least, suspected -- this is the case for months. Ever since Ypres, though Tom _still_ doesn’t want to think about it.)

But Tom is determined to see this through, because Will deserves a break from the war. Because Tom knows Will loves his family, he loves his family so much; it’s in the way he never, ever talks about them if he can help it. It’s in the way Will’s eyes get distant and he closes himself off when they get brought up, as though he can shield them from hundreds of miles away by never thinking about them while he’s in the war fighting to defend France. It’s in the way he hides his photos of Ellie, Hortensia, and Calpurnia (and Tom still cannot get over the names, they are _so wild)_ and never takes them out, not ever; not to show them off to the other Sergeants nor to the men of 5th Platoon, even when the Sergeants or the men start pulling their own family photos out to show around to prove they are more than just names attached to guns. 

(To the best of Tom’s knowledge, Will has never taken them out in the presence of Joe. Tom wonders if Joe even knows Will is married.)

The point is -- the point is, Will deserves to see his family. And he deserves to see them without fearing for Tom’s life. (Non-life? Existence? Whatever.) Even if it’s painful for Will -- he needs a break, and he needs to be reminded that there is more to life than the dead. And so Tom _will_ endure this, for Will’s sake.

That doesn’t change the fact things seem much less exciting without Will around. It’s winter, so it’s not like it would be that colourful to begin with, but even so -- sometimes Tom thinks he is moving through a world in a photograph, all blacks and greys and whites and faded ochre. Many things seem much further away, as though they aren’t even in the same reality.

Tom should probably tell Joe about that -- but then, Tom never saw any point in telling Mother about the scrapes he and Joe got into because she’d just worry and not be able to change a damn thing. This, Tom thinks, is much the same. Plus, he doesn’t want to worry his brother so needlessly when all Tom needs to do is keep it together for ten days. Tom can see Joe is already struggling hard with the additional burden of seeing ghosts every so often -- though Will is quick to take the spirits in the camp in hand, they’ve become more visible the closer they get to the Front. And without Will around to collect them, they tend to drift through the world. Only -- now Joe can see them. 

And some of them are horrible, yes. (Tom thinks of how Joe pales and looks away every time he catches sight of the bloody stains all down his side, still uncomfortable with looking at Tom and just taking him in.)

And, Tom thinks moodily, as this meeting with Richards and Langley and Parry and Clive (Graham’s nervous replacement, twitchier than anything) wraps up, he can’t even tease Joe as much as he’d like, nor say half the things he’d like to say. Joe’s really not very good at covering his interaction with Tom, or pretending he doesn’t hear Tom at all; and while Tom could argue Joe needs more practice, he thinks Joe really just needs more practice while Will is around -- Will helps cover any slips Joe makes seamlessly. So Tom doesn’t feel very good about doing any of that because it just wouldn’t be fair to Joe, not right now.

\--Plus, Joe can have a terrible temper, sometimes. Tom knows precisely how to twig it, too. He doesn’t think that’s a good idea when Joe can stuff him in a ring with one ill-conceived revenge attempt. (And Joe is still awful at fitting Tom into that ring, no matter how much he tries doing whatever it is Will does.)

Tom supposes really, all this boils down to is that Tom didn’t know how melancholy one could get, or what melancholy was really like. With Will gone, he has the uncomfortable thought that he is learning the ins and outs of it now. 

But at the moment -- well, at the moment, he can run interference for Joe. He can send the ghosts they come across to go haunt Hepburn, but Tom gets the feeling that Hepburn isn’t like Will: as the days pass, the numbers of British ghosts decrease (unless there’s been a recent attack), but the ghosts who aren’t British stick around. And sometimes it gets right crowded. So when Tom isn’t around Joe, he tries to locate appropriate graveyards and then does his best to direct any spirits he finds in that direction.

It’s hard, though. The rain returns, periodically, and that makes venturing outside tricky. On more than one occasion, Tom has found he needs to hastily fit himself into Joe’s badges or buttons -- he is unable to stand being in the rain for long, now. 

Tom had a count of the days until Will was due back, but he’s already lost track of the date. He hopes Will comes back soon.

~ * ~

_January 5th, 1918 -- Burnley, England_

His father’s health declines shockingly fast, Will reflects later. Or maybe it is just that whatever appearance of health Will noted in those first few days was him failing to see how poorly his father had really become. Perhaps it is both.

But that doesn’t matter now. Papa ceases to go downstairs much after the new year, though he insists on having work from the shop brought to him so that he has something to do with his hands. They find him dozing with it fallen to the side, often as not.

Will would like to spend more time with him. As an apology -- not being a good enough son to hear what should have been heard, perhaps. To make up for time lost with Will’s foolishness in volunteering to an entity that will not release him. Perhaps simply because Will feels, somehow, that there is something he should have done.

But there is both too much time, and not enough. His father lives. Will no longer knows whether he prays his father dies while Will is at home or waits until Will is gone.

~ * ~

_January 5th, 1918 -- Passchendaele, Belgium_

Captain Richards manages to find him at midday -- it’s not hard; they’re stationed in the second line of trenches at the moment, and with Schofield still unaccounted for, Joseph has insisted on staying with his men. At the moment, Joseph is discussing foot inspections with Lance Corporals Farley and Upton. 

“Lieutenant Blake,” Richards says formally, returning Joseph’s salute as Joseph comes to attention along with Farley and Upton. “Got a minute?”

“Of course, Sir,” Joseph says, and dismisses Farley and Upton. “News?”

“Yes,” Richards says, not unkindly now that they are relatively alone. “Captain Hallewell has returned -- he wanted me to let you know about Sergeant Schofield, as he was unsure if Headquarters would have bothered relaying the information.”

Joseph is a little taken aback. Next to him, Joseph senses Tom coming to attention. 

“What? Has something happened to him?” Joseph asks.

“Not really, no,” Richards says, seeming surprised by Joseph’s reaction. Then he makes a face, realising how poorly he worded his statement. “He’s fine, as far as I know. No, it’s just that Captain Hallewell saw fit to extend his leave back in England -- that’s all. He won’t be back until the 12th.”

Tom makes a wounded noise, but Joseph can’t look at him -- he restrains himself from turning. “I see,” he says instead, blankly. “May I ask why?”

Richards shrugs. “No idea,” he says. “Hallewell will know, but I didn’t inquire.”

“Ah. Thank you for letting me know, Sir,” Joseph says.

Richards doesn’t stay after that; he has other matters to attend to. 

“Are you alright?” Joseph hisses to Tom as soon as Richards is far enough away. He tries to catch a glimpse of his brother without obviously turning.

“Yeah,” Tom says, hoarsely. When Joseph manages to chance a look at him, he sees Tom’s expression is brittle. He firms it up into something approximating cheer when he sees Joseph looking, though. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it.”

Joseph doesn’t really believe him but -- that’s when Lieutenant Clive approaches, obviously anxious and trying to hide it. Joseph will have to get back to Tom in a moment.

~ * ~

_January 10th, 1918 -- Burnley, England_

Will lies awake during his last night in Burnley. Tomorrow, he must get on the train; he will reach Southampton by the evening. If he is unlucky, he will not be able to cross the Channel that night. He will be in France by the 12th, but it is unknown if he will be with the 2nd Devons and the rest of the 8th Division by the end of that day. (It isn’t likely, and Will -- should care more about that.)

(His thoughts pull him towards Tom, stuck on the front. It’s too late to change that now.)

Earlier this evening, they exchanged their letters -- finally.

Ellie gives him hers, first, two stacks that are neatly folded and bound with twine. He holds them between the two of them and inhales their scent -- and hers -- before putting them into his pack for later.

Then he brings out his. Everything Will has written since his last period of leave home, back in 1916, he has kept. Kept, held in reserve, held so that Ellie will know the truth of things and not only what the censors wish her to know. So that Will can write the truths of what he sees without despairing that she will fear for him, when he cannot help but and cannot dare to fear for himself -- or for them. She told him she would expect nothing less, when he proposed this to her on the last night home during his first leave.

As he expects, she notices the lack of letters dated before April 8th. She almost whips herself into a froth before he takes her in his arms and murmurs that there is an explanation -- trust him; read that first letter. She can do it now if she wants to. 

She elected to shove him on the bed, because he is here, now, and his letters can keep. 

At the moment, Ellie is curled up against him, wrapped around him tightly. No matter how he tests, she clings tighter; at last he resigns himself to the fact that she is still awake, as he is. And he hasn’t the time to try to exhaust her in other ways, even though -- as his body sluggishly reminds him, vastly uninterested in his darker thoughts despite the exertions of earlier -- he would very, very much like to. 

“I don’t suppose you could pretend to be asleep and let me slip out?” he whispers soundlessly into the dark.

Her grip on him only strengthens, as though she can anchor him here, forever. “No,” she says back. 

Will feels his temper flip with the absurdity of the situation and he laughs quietly. He scrubs at his eyes; he’ll have plenty of crying to do tonight, he’s certain. Best not to waste the tears now.

“Come with me,” he says, sensing she will allow no other compromise.

They get dressed in the dark. It doesn’t matter if they are presentable, so long as they are able to brave the cold outside. In perfect silence, Will takes care to bundle Ellie in as many layers of warm clothing as she’ll accept; she does the same for him, using her own scarves and muffler and woolen mittens instead of his army gear. 

\--And how different, to go sneaking out of one’s own house with a partner. Will doesn’t need to bother with the kitchen window, though he bets he’d still fit -- if he weren’t wearing his uniform and kit, anyway. Instead, they can just quietly unlatch the door. Mother and Papa won’t come investigating with it being the two of them, after all.

It is dreamlike, outside. The moon is the thinnest shrinking sliver of light, but it is undimmed by any cloud cover and reflects off the snow. It is glimmeringly luminescent, a ghostly world of shadows. They walk arm in arm through the dark streets, somehow not needing the street lamps to show them the way. 

Will has come far from being a stripling 11-year-old, sneaking out of the house to meet a friend. His old partner in crime, Henry, has been dead for over a year, killed in the Somme. And between Will and Ellie, they eat up the distance in less time than he and his childhood friend did near sixteen years earlier. 

The Haggate stands, as it ever did. The bell tolls half-past.

Standing on the other side of the street, opposite the gate, Will breaks their shared silence for the first time. “How did you know I was telling the truth?” 

Ellie holds tightly to his arm and rests her head against his shoulder. She knows what he means: why did she arbitrate so in his friends’ spat, all those years ago. “I didn’t know,” she says eventually.

Will feels amusement shake through him. It must come out as a sob, though, because she squeezes more tightly to him and turns towards him with some alarm.

“Tell me,” he says, turning to look her in the eyes.

He watches as she looks at him. She is absolutely still besides the small movements of her eyes as she examines him minutely -- up, and down: every inch.

Eventually: “I didn’t,” she says again, honestly. “I just knew Andrew was being a prick about it.” 

Will loves her for it, more than he ever has. He doesn’t know what it is about her that draws him so, only that she seems always to know exactly what she wants and exactly what to say to get it. That he is what she wants has always been something of a mystery to him; he has never been more grateful for it than now.

She reaches up and cups his face. With her thumb, she wipes the wetness that threatens to spill over, helping him hide from the rest of the world. “I loved you then, even if I didn’t know it,” she says, eyes searching, “but I continued to love you after that, because you never gave me reason to doubt you. Not until you came home -- not until you returned, the first time.”

He flinches out of her touch, then. Because he knows: he knows he lied to her, and to the rest of his family, even if his body betrayed him with how he could not keep control of it; nor of his reactions, nor his moods, nor his silence. But she doesn’t let him alone. 

This is the other part that he loves of her: that she is absolutely unafraid; that she will storm up to what he cannot. She will face what he would rather sidestep. Ellie snatches ahold of him, taking him firmly by the chin, and forces him to look at her again. 

“William Schofield, I know you,” she tells him. “Even when you lie. Especially when you lie.” Her voice is firm, but her eyes are just as wet. --She doesn’t stop for anything, though, his wife. “You’ve given me your letters and I will read them, and I will know the truth of it. But you should know that I will always know you, and I will always love you. And I doubt that will ever change.”

She lets him pull her in. He can’t tear himself away, and this is the easiest way to resolve it, anyhow. They stand together in front of the churchyard, pressed together from forehead to foot. Their breath mingles in gleaming tracery, suspended in the winter air.

The church tower tolls a quarter ‘til. 

It doesn’t startle them, but there is a new awareness. After long, long moments, she leans up to kiss him, standing on her toes to do it. It is his turn to cling, all but crushing her to him. Despite his familiarity with Death, he doesn’t know if he can do this now. 

She endures it without complaint. Then she pushes him away. “You’ll be late,” she says, voice thick with some unnameable emotion. He goes.

William Schofield crosses the road and enters the graveyard. The gate has been greased sometime in the last sixteen years, and it is far simpler for him to get in without making a sound. The churchyard is hushed and still.

He carries no ghosts this time. Will comes instead with a favor to ask: a favor from an old friend for someone Will loves, a favor that may yet break him if he does not convey it properly. And Will has never dreaded anything so as he does now.

With midnight, the Grim appears, silent as the snow. It is curious, and a little confused, but it greets him warmly as ever. And Will makes welcome the Grim, and explains the situation. He explains being part of something he cannot control and the conflict of duty. Of Papa -- still alive, though with days that are numbered. Of Will’s fears in not being there for his father: for Will now knows all too intimately what can befall a ghost, new or not, without anything or anyone to protect it. The Grim listens patiently through it all.

Afterwards, when he closes the gate behind him as he leaves, Ellie is still there. She waits for him, watching as he crosses the road while taking care to avoid a patch of ice, and accepts his arm when he offers it. 

“I hope you weren’t waiting long,” he tells her.

“No,” Ellie says quietly. She touches his face tenderly. “It wasn’t long.”

The return journey seems to take no time at all. They undress, solemnly, and together, they climb into bed.

Ellie does not get any sleep that night. With how he is there with her for every moment, Will can’t say he regrets keeping her up, either.

~ * ~

_January 15th, 1918 -- Passchendaele, Belgium_

The night they are due to be relieved by the 25th Infantry Brigade from the line, a screaming nightmare sweeps in from the east and drowns the region. It is a storm unlike anything else they have seen so far. It drops so much water that it floods the trench systems; combined with the sporadic periods of thawing that have made the ground soft, it sweeps away supports and buries whole dugouts alive. 

This is how Joe and the men of 5th Platoon spend their night into the wee hours of the morning: digging out what’s left of their shelter in the hopes of finding two missing men.

When the storm first came through, the men were more determined to stay inside than outside. When water started to drip through the walls, though, most of the platoon elected to brave the ice wind and pouring rain while waiting for relief -- and Joseph wonders how many of them had nightmares about mud that grasped and pulled and sucked at you. By the time the dugout collapsed, only ten men were inside.

Tom is inconsolable. When the dugout collapsed, he had been next to Joseph, huddling in the entrance of the dugout -- Tom hadn’t wanted to be pulled into any objects, and Joseph had long noticed that Tom couldn’t stand to be in the rain anymore, either. Tom had made some half-hearted excuses, and Joseph had pretended to believe them. 

Now, though, he is screaming. He is out in the rain, and his form is flickering and spitting; and he screams, “Scho, Scho!” Joseph cannot for the life of him understand why, not until he remembers the conversation with Will, outside Headquarters at Croisilles . . . but he hasn’t the time to pursue that thought through to the end.

While the men are still scrambling to assure themselves of who is where, Joseph takes a chance. He and Will don’t want it known that Joseph also has the capabilities of a deadman, and none of the men know, but Joseph has to try. Tom isn’t doing well. Joseph reaches out for Tom’s spirit, and pulls, just like he did in practice with Will.

Tom’s outline dims for a moment. Then it flares brighter and Tom glares at him -- but Joseph can see clearly that Tom doesn’t recognise who he is in the slightest. Joseph doesn’t understand and feels the cold chill of panic --

“Sir, we’re missing ten,” Oakes interrupts him, pulling his attention back to the larger issue at hand. 

Joseph shelves his growing fear. He needs to get his mind turned to the pressing matter of making sure his platoon doesn’t die, suffocating in their bunks. 

Eight are quickly located. Rutherford, Allen, Simpson, Chadha, and McLoughlin are found scared and muddied, but unhurt. Most of them are near the entrance and able to pull themselves free. Joseph crisply orders the men not trapped about, directing some to help those who are only half-buried or partly free already while he speaks with those who are extracted in an effort to place those who are still missing. From what they recall of the men inside the dugout, Joseph ascertains that Collins, Morgan and Leigh were still in the middle space; after some judicious digging, Leigh and Collins are pulled free with only minimal assistance from their compatriots. Morgan is found after a few minutes more, head crushed by a falling beam. 

Joseph stares at Morgan -- what is left of him. He doesn’t want to look away. The rain is still an endless deluge, and he wants to make sure that if Morgan’s ghost forms, Joseph catches it. 

Muffled yelling draws the attention of Private Brandt, who immediately calls for help and starts digging with his bare hands right next to Tom, who is rocking in place and weeping. Four men gingerly pick their way through and use trench tools and hands to scrape away the mud until they hit timber shoring, moved from its position of support by the collapse of muddy walls. Joseph gets in there to make sure that they lift the wood so that it doesn’t cause whatever space between to collapse, and fortunately, they are able to pull out a shaking Farley. Behind him, leg trapped by a wooden beam, is Pickering. 

“You alright in there, Private?” Joseph calls into the space, shining his torch into the gloom. He and Oakes can just make out Pickering, plastered with mud, eyes white and wide in the light. 

“I’ll keep, Sir,” Pickering responds, strained. He’s doing his best, but his voice is high with barely restrained panic.

“You’ve got this, Pick',” Farley calls. He’s ignored efforts to move him from the opening, and is staying within earshot to shout encouragement to Pickering. Joseph feels a flash of pride in how his men are rising to the occasion.

“We’re passing you a rope,” Oakes says. “Grab it and wrap it around yourself if you can. We’re going to try lifting the wood and pulling you out at the same time -- understand?”

“Yes, Corp’,” Pickering says. He takes the rope and clumsily wraps it around himself.

Next to Oakes, Tom kneels on the ground, scrabbling at the mud. He doesn’t notice his hands go right through it. He screams, again and again, for Scho, voice panicky and desperate. He’s crying now, too. It cracks something in Joseph -- he’s not sure if it’s his heart or the remnant of some futile hope. 

He tries pulling Tom into the ring again. Tom’s outline flickers; his brother shudders and his form grows faint. But that’s it. Joseph curses, feeling frantic. He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong -- but he can’t spare the time anymore; Oakes is looking at him for more orders.

Joseph and Brandt examine the wood in the torchlight. It is not easy to see, and none of them can really crawl into the space with Pickering -- it’s still too small and unstable for that. But they can see, dimly, that the wooden spar they think is pinning Pickering into place is crossed from beneath by a stouter support, which juts from the heap of mud. If they lever that up, it may also lift the spar, and they’ll be able to pull Pickering free. 

“Let’s get them into place,” Joseph orders. Three others, fresher men than before, take their places carefully and together, they slowly lift the beam. Joseph, keeping his torch pointed in, is able to see as the spar relieves its pressure on Pickering: Pickering makes a strangled sort of gasp and nearly faints. “Stay awake, Pickering,” Joseph says, keeping his voice steady and unignorable. “Stay with us here, we need you awake to pull you out -- hold tight to that rope, yes -- now, Oakes.”

At last they get the Private free and draw him out, white and shivering from shock. His eyes roll up and he finally does faint. Someone covers him in a blanket and an oiled raincoat, though Joseph doubts it will prevent him from being soaked through.

There is nothing to do but stay where they are, bunking on the collapsed remains of the dugout. Their relief detail has not yet arrived -- and from the sounds of the positions on either side and the runners that are struggling through the muck, exhausted, Joseph judges that they might not be relieved before morning at all.

Tom is very, very faint, now. He is rocking in place, still close to where Pickering was buried. Freed of his obligations to his men, Joseph crouches next to him, as though looking at where Pickering was.

“Tom,” he says quietly, using that particular effort to catch Tom’s attention. He hasn’t much hope at this point, but Joseph must try. 

But -- it works. Tom turns to him, hollow and vacant. 

“Where’s Scho?” he asks, lifeless. “He was right here . . . he was just here . . .”

Joseph has never seen anything like this. He never wants to see it again, not with the way it twists at all the feelings he’s stuffed away to examine later. --But Tom finally jogs Joseph’s memory.

Joseph reaches into his breast-pocket -- the one in his shirt, that lies beneath his tunic uniform -- and finds Schofield’s tin. A new awareness seems to flicker in Tom for a moment, but then it is gone. Joseph swallows as he opens the little metal container, doing his best to shield its contents from the rain, and prays this is the right thing to do. 

This time, when he reaches for Tom’s ghost, he directs it towards the tin. For a moment, Joseph thinks it isn’t working; but then, with a sigh, Tom wisps into the open container and pools in it at the bottom before sinking into the metal. Joseph closes it with a quiet click and settles the tin securely back on his person.

“Sir?” one of the men asks from behind him, tentatively. “Sir, there’s a runner here for you . . .” 

Joseph takes the interruption in stride and gets up to see what the runner wants. _Good Lord,_ he thinks as he goes, rattled to the very limits of his composure. How Schofield does this all the time is beyond him.

And deeper, Joseph buries his fears that if Schofield doesn’t return soon, Tom won’t recover. It is clear to him now that Joseph can’t do a damned thing for his brother anymore.

~ * ~

_January 16th, 1918 -- Passchendaele, Belgium_

The men in the rear all look half-dead, stained with mud and worse. The ghosts that follow them are ghastly apparitions, sleepy and quiet -- they have been drowned by the land and aren’t very aware of anything besides those they follow.

Will has been traveling for days, now. The roads to get here, where he’d been told the 8th Division was, were muddy and, frequently, unpaved. It took longer than he had thought he would need to get back to the 2nd Devons. 

Once he set foot back in France, Will had been seized by formless anxiety. He spent his whole leave desperately uncaring about the situation with 5th Platoon; he wanted to enjoy his time with his family. His next leave would surely not come for another year after all. But that changed once the sea-salt breeze was behind him, and now, he is nearly frantic with the dread of uncertainty.

What is left for him? Who has survived? He has been gone for 25 days, almost a whole month; Will knows how many lives can be lost in that time. By what accounts he has heard since he landed, the 2nd were moved back to Passchendaele on Christmas Day. They have been at the front for over two weeks, and all without him.

The area he is in now is bleak and lifeless with the dead of Winter upon it. There isn’t a soul moving through it who would rather not. It is clear that a storm has swept through recently; a fresh coating of ice is evident, and the deep-seated despair of managing the mud is apparent on every face he sees.

A voice catches his attention. “Schofield! Sergeant Schofield!”

Will turns to look; it is Captain Hallewell. He waves to Will, looking exhausted, if in relatively good cheer, and Will makes for him, trying to ignore how the land sucks at each step as though in jealous warning that he will never leave again. 

“Sir,” he says when he is closer, acknowledging the Captain’s greeting. “Reporting for duty, Sir.”

“Would that you could, Sergeant,” Hallewell says cordially. “You’ll be glad to know that Lieutenant Blake is well, as are the men of the 5th -- your team is still whole, damn you!”

“Yes, Sir,” Will says, because the Captain is trying and he is not a bad sort. “Sorry, Sir.”

Captain Hallewell nods down the opposite direction that Will was heading. “They’ll be down that way,” he says. “You’d best get going, though. Blake seemed eager to have you back.”

Which did not bode well, not in the slightest. Will saluted the Captain and made his excuses, hurrying in the direction indicated as soon as he could do so politely. He has been reaching for Tom and has felt only traces; dread is eating at him.

A group of men are seated on the outskirts of the trench system, dispirited and filthy. Will very nearly passes them up, unrecognisable as they are, but Lance Corporal Oakes continues to have keen eyes and picks him out from fifty paces. Will greets them all brusquely, taking only the time to salute and clasp some of their hands, before he’s striding for the shelter they marked as being where Joseph was, currently.

Will enters, blinking away the dimness. A few men are there, huddled around a game of cards. Tom is nowhere to be seen. Joseph is seated at a rough wooden table, staring at a sheet of paper. His eyes are rimmed in red. 

He does not look up as Will approaches, but does come to life when Will greets the card players and then orders them out. 

“You’re late,” Joseph says, harshly. He fumbles out Will’s tin and passes it to him, surreptitiously swiping at his nose in the same movement. Will takes back his tin, feeling the bottom plummet out of his stomach -- he fears the worst.

But, no -- Tom is there. Tom is there! Weak, but Tom is still there. Will sags in relief when he feels it.

“What happened?” he asks. He strokes his tin, then opens it. Tenny and Callie look up at him, familiar-yet-not; Ellie reminds him of his promise to her. Tom is imbued throughout the metal, presence rippling. Will is so filled with relief he could cry.

“The storm,” Joseph says hoarsely. “It collapsed the dugout on us.”

Will feels the words as a physical blow and barely manages to keep from shuddering. “Yes,” he says softly. “That would have done it.” He reaches out and feels for Tom -- lets Tom know that he is there. Because if it’s anything like last August, Tom will need time before he comes out on his own.

Gently, Will settles the tin back in his breast-pocket. It fits as though he never took it out. 

“Will he be alright?” Joseph asks quietly.

“Yes,” Will can assure him. 

And it will take time to explain Will’s long absence -- and time to reacquaint himself with the particulars of the platoon -- and time, also, to forget being at home so that Will can fulfill his promise to his family -- but they shan’t be at the front for another week and that will be enough, here in the rear of the line. Will drags one of the card players’ chairs over to Joseph’s table and begins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N -- Aaaaaaaaand we’re rated M. Did I ever tell you my husband and I were in a long-distance relationship for three years, where we saw each other in person twice a year? *coughs* right, moving on.
> 
> Welcome back you guys! Another multi-chaptered fic awaits your reading pleasure :) As you can see, the um. The story did not want to start slow, not at all. We are foreseeing a story structure similar to “We are the Dead” -- long chapters interspersed with shorter interludes -- and I’m not sure when the next chapter will be up because I’m still reeling from the length of this one. You can expect it in about a week, though.
> 
> IF you are not satisfied and IF, after reading this, you are DESPERATE FOR MORE -- go, go, go and read LadyCharity and scientistsinistral’s series, “there and back again!” And in case you DIDN’T hear, WafflesRisa’s “Pick a man. Bring your kit.” HAS ALSO been updated, not even a few days ago!
> 
> As always, let me and Vuvu -- She Who Is Greatest and Most Glorious -- know how you feel! Comments/kudos are always welcome. Or hit us up on the tumbles, yo! @lizofalltrades & @marbat :)
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. Okay. We know that storm wasn’t real. Did you *have* to put Tom through that?
> 
> Sorry guys, that storm 100% happened. The 23rd Infantry Brigade was being relieved of their turn on the line by the 25th Infantry Brigade during the night of January 15th, but . . . this storm did sweep in with unexpected violence and basically flooded the heck out of the British Lines. We weren’t making any of that up!
> 
> 2\. Okay, fine. But did you have to make the 2nd Devons go back to the front on CHRISTMAS?
> 
> Sorry . . . that also happened irl . . . the 8th Division left Wizernes sector (Saint-Omer) on December 25th and went back to the same area they were in where the events of the latter half of Chapter 5 of “We are the Dead” took place. By December 27th, they’d relieved the 14th Division and took back over that part of the front line.
> 
> 3\. How come Schofield wasn’t in trouble for being AWOL?
> 
> Due to how terrible communications lines were (compared to now) and due to the conditions at the battlefront, it was entirely possible for someone to be coming back from being home on leave and still not find their regiment/battalion for several days. I did actually find something that was saying that in the British Army, someone wasn’t declared AWOL unless it was 20 days past when they were supposed to return, but I honestly lost that reference and couldn’t corroborate it. Still, we thought it entirely plausible, given the nature of the war, transportation, and communications.
> 
> 4\. How did going on leave work?
> 
> Largely as depicted in this story. On average, commissioned officers (like Joseph and Hallewell) were given periods of leave every three months. Non-coms and enlisted were granted a period of leave on average every 15 months. If there was an emergency at home -- a parent dying, etc. -- you could request leave and your commanding officer could grant it to you. However, leave was usually only 10 days long, and started as soon as you left the line. Soldiers from Scotland, for example, often spent six-seven of their days just traveling to and from home, and maybe three or four actually being with their family. Sadness, yo.


	2. tgb: Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the guns below_ Interlude I: Selected letters from the correspondence of Mary Eleanor Schofield to her husband, William Schofield. Dated October 1916 - November 1917.

October 26, 1916

My darling Will,

It has been a week since you left. I can hardly stand it. I wish I could take the whole army and shake it until it releases you -- as my birthday present, perhaps? I know I ought to be grateful for the time we had already, and that it was a blessing you were here so close to it at all, but I want more.

You should be here: you should fit neatly at my side each night and bustle about the shop during the day. You know my mending is terrible and, as I am barely fit to do more than hem handkerchiefs, I fear that I am more of a hindrance at the shop than a help. All I can do is balance the books for your family; and mine as well, though I suppose that soon I shall be displaced by Andrew, when he is capable of it. 

Sometimes I think that, were it not for your father’s sure enjoyment of my unwillingness to budge in such common-sense matters as not aggravating everyone on the doorstep, I should not be so welcome in your parents’ home.

If you hadn’t asked for me to withhold my letters, and proposed that you hold yours until such time as we could exchange them in person, I doubt I should be writing such things. I don’t want you to fret about us at home. But perhaps there is some wisdom in you yet! I feel freer to express myself to you than I have in months. And I can always rewrite these later, if I need to. Then again, I may as well leave it for the censors were such the case.

Some nights I dream of you. You are always gone when I wake and it breaks my heart.

Endless Love,

Ellie

~ * ~

November 10, 1916

Will,

The children were squabbling today. Over what I do not know, nor would they tell me once I had them separated. Sometimes I think that it is as if children need no excuse to argue; that they take sheer pleasure in making a racket and flailing about. It is much like the war I expect, all of these countries fighting for one dead man. 

It frustrates me -- yes. The children frustrate me, though it sickens me to admit it! Not for long, mind, but -- when I see them fighting, it just makes me wish for you. That you were here to help corral them, to entertain and to teach them, to see them grow and become people beyond that of the infant and toddler you have last seen. And that's what worries me most: that Calpurnia was barely a year old when you enlisted, and Hortensia not much older. I worry that they will forget you -- no, that isn’t it either, for Calpurnia already does not recall you beyond our sharing our memories of you with her. 

I hate that she does not remember who you are. I show her your pictures sometimes; but they aren’t very good ones of you. The more I look at them, the more it seems you are frowning in every single one of them. I wish I had some where you smiled instead, though I know that is likely no longer possible. What I would give to see your smile once more --

I regret that we made such a poor showing when you were on your first leave. I think of -- I think of a lot of things, these days. I wish I could have told you what you wanted to hear. I wish we could have known what you needed. I wish we could have found a way to break the news about your father. ~~But you were so~~ What is this war, that it does such things to you? 

Andrew is no longer who he was. He is so quiet these days and I hardly feel the need to shut him up. Instead he is as silent as the grave -- quieter, often; he acts much as you did, if less skittish. Mum confessed to me that he wakes them up, screaming in the night. Do you do the same?

I see what Andrew looks like in the mornings and I wonder about your sleeplessness with me. I wish I could be there.

With all my love,

Ellie

~ * ~

December 12, 1916

Dearest Will,

Did I ever tell you about Charlotte Hayhurst’s youngest sister, Anne? I feel I must have done so, in one of my letters earlier this year. There is a munitions factory in Leeds that she has been working in since July of this year, boarding with her aunt and uncle. Anyway, there was a terrible explosion there just earlier this month; Anne was not on shift at the time, but she confided to Charlotte that it was simply awful. The conditions they worked in meant there was a great amount of explosive material and when it went off --!

Something like two-dozen people -- mostly women and girls like Anne -- were pulled out of what was left of the workshop, already dead, but there is of course no hard way of knowing. Another dozen girls were rescued from what I’ve heard, though who knows if they are still capable of working.

No one seems to know about it, or at least, it hasn’t been reported in the papers here. I only know because Charlotte needed someone to talk to and was nearly in hysterics over it all. Anne is refusing to come home sensibly, and she does make very good money, but this explosion has really made her family fearful for her life.

It certainly makes me reconsider my thoughts of taking up a spare shift at the mill nearby. I suppose that as it stands, I’ve enough work to keep my hands busy with the girls and your father.

As ever, darling, I miss you dreadfully.

Yours,

Ellie

~ * ~

December 23, 1916

My darling,

I miss you more than words can express. I always hated how, in the books in Mum and Dad’s shop, the letters between the heroes and heroines were so -- so -- speechless, so nondescript; now I understand why. There are many things that could be said, but the grief for us both is something I cannot grasp, nor fully articulate. To do so seems to be an injustice. And I cannot get it right, either.

We all feel hunger pinching at us, these days. Everything seems to be scarce, though we don’t necessarily want for food; instead, it seems that the flavour of everything is in short supply. Nothing tastes right. I watch the girls eat their breakfast with the same enthusiasm each morning, but it is hard to bring myself to stomach it. 

Your mother is the one who encourages me, most days. I know we have ever been amiable -- I think she tolerated me a lot more than I had any right to expect! -- but I never felt we truly understood each other. Each day, though, it is she to whom I turn to for support and strength. ~~I hope it is not because we both~~ Your mother is a Godsend.

I can’t stand sleeping alone in this cold. I believe there is a draft in your old room, but your parents swear the roof was redone properly in September. I have piled on your old blankets and press my nose to them each night. I imagine I can smell you in their weave, though I know they smell more of myself than you these days. This great distance between us is like a vast river. I do what I can to ford its waters, but despite my every attempt you remain so far away.

I love you,

Ellie

~ * ~

January 6, 1917

My husband,

I’ve never liked January, and I like it even less without you in it. I hope it is not as bitterly cold at the Front as it is here without you.

The girls are in the post-Christmas doldrums. They hate being cooped up inside, but it is such a _process_ to get them wrapped up adequately to go outdoors. Your father took them on an expedition the other day and gave your mother and I some respite, but I doubt it will happen again any time soon, for it quite wore him out. 

Andrew has taken to haunting the books at my parents’ shop. He has a hard time getting around and doesn’t want others to see his disfigurement. Mum tries to get him out and about, to see that it is not all so changed as that, but with his face all red and strange, he draws attention. I think it will fade as people become accustomed to it, but it is so hard when the initial reaction is so unwanted -- and when he cannot seem to stand seeing it. The extra hours at the shop have improved his maths, at least.

Johnny Dorsey -- you remember Johnny? -- is home and he is little more than a ghost. I believe he and his brother (Jimmy) were in the same regiment, or unit, or -- whatever; they were serving together, but if you recall, Jimmy was slain. Anyway, Johnny came by to visit, asking after you and became quite distressed to hear that your leave was two months past. He left in quite a state without ever getting around to telling us what business he had with you. I suspect it had to do with his brother, of course.

The markets are dry this time of year, so little comes in. We are subsisting on bread and whatever we can scrape upon it, with a lonely fish on Sundays. With the lack of fresh food and vegetables, I worry about the girls developing scurvy or the like. Mrs Akers from down the street proclaims often that onions can help fight it off. I don't know if I believe her, but her husband was a sailor for many years; so we have tried that. The bulbs are at least easy to get a hold of, and onion soup is not a terrible meal, even if it does result in _quite_ the after-dinner atmosphere! 

I love and miss you every day.

Ellie

~ * ~

February 1st, 1917

My dearest Will,

I can’t get it out of my head, you know, how awful it must be to do what you do -- or rather, to see what you see -- and still be fighting every day. 

What possessed you to volunteer, darling? Why? I know you can see the dead and speak with them -- that you met the Grim -- but why would you choose to volunteer to put yourself into the middle of a _war?_

\-- I know it isn’t fair, perhaps. But I remember you muttering in _German_ while you slept in October -- and I can’t imagine how you’ve learnt it. If you were doing it properly, I know you would have wanted to write about it in your letters home because it would have been the most mundane thing you could fill pages with that wouldn’t actually tell us anything about how you are doing. Since you haven’t, I can only wonder who -- or maybe, what -- has taught it to you?

I suppose, though, at least you don’t stare so. Andrew does that, sometimes -- staring at things that aren’t there. One or two younger men who have also returned home act much the same way when I see them. You never did, in October. I wonder if it was because you already knew whether you were looking at ghosts or not. 

Johnny hasn’t been back since his initial visit, but I’ve no doubt it was about his brother. I’ve heard his family has been quite inconsolable -- Jimmy was the baby of the family. I find it a bit funny -- it only took a war for him to believe what you saw in the graveyard.

Your wife,

Ellie

~ * ~

March 13, 1917

My love,

Today is your birthday. You are 26 years old now. I wish I could share it with you. I had almost pulled the recipe out for that Victoria Sponge you love so much, but could not stand the thought of reading _1 cup flour, 3 eggs_ were it not for your benefit. I shall celebrate instead as I imagine you are celebrating: with a cup of tea and a blistering curse to hide how much I wish that you were by my side.

Your parents miss you very much, as do your daughters.

Please come home soon.

Love,

Ellie

~ * ~

March 20, 1917

My dear,

Calpurnia’s fourth birthday is drawing to a close as I write this letter. She has become as impetuous and demanding as I ever was, possibly, but perhaps more so -- your father dotes on her. He is encouraging her to be a real spit-fire! Your mother despairs a little, I think, but both of us are so happy to see him brighten up in her company, it is hard to discourage the two of them.

I wish you were here, my love. I think back on your birthday four years ago -- I was miserable the whole time. You were so gentle with me, no matter how I tested your patience -- you joked that it was to be expected with how easy Hortensia’s time went. And you didn’t begrudge a minute of it. I think you would do wonders at calming Calpurnia’s wildness -- I think it would be a great comfort to your father, too. You could rile him just as easily as me, some days, though I know you rarely chose to do so.

I am so thankful you were there for both of our girls’ births. ~~But I wish you could be here for their childhood, too.~~ I miss you nevertheless. 

My parents’ shop continues to make ends meet. Not many go out of their way for such luxuries as books these days, but some crave the escape as much as I do. 

Andrew is getting better at staying at the counter and does not shy in the streets as much. It helps him sometimes if I walk arm in arm with him -- I can deflect some of the attention. And there are many who remember they dislike him for himself, and not for the scars! -- I suppose that is cruel of me, but being an older sister has its privileges.

Charlotte’s sister Anne is testing her family’s patience even more; there has been another explosion, but she comforts them with the reassurance that only two girls were killed this time. Charlotte’s sentiments are unfit for recording.

Love,

Ellie

~ * ~

April 3, 1917

William,

The flowering crabapple tree has begun to bloom, and every time I catch sight of those pink and white petals I think of you. Remember the time when Johnny started a fight with Andrew, and you riled them up so much that they both started chasing you; and then the rest of us joined in so that we were all chasing each other under those flowering branches through the afternoon, up until Johnny and Andrew were so tired they couldn’t remember what they were fighting over in the first place? 

I think that is the first time I fell in love with you William Schofield, though of course it was hardly the last. I have fallen for you again and again, with each passing day, each passing moment, and memory that floats into my mind. We spent a childhood in engagement that was solidified by childhood adventurings; our promise rings were made of thistle and weed. And though it’s been more than half our lifetimes and I cannot remember much of life before we met, I am unsatisfied -- it’s not enough. 

I think to myself sometimes, standing amongst the books in the shop, that I could write a better tale than the authors before me. Have I not already lived one? A home in a cozy bookstore, where a brother and sister somehow never grew apart no matter how much they fought; with a boy in the neighborhood who spoke with ghosts and vanished into thin air at the stroke of midnight; and a girl who danced with fairies; and all in a village with a clocktower that only struck once -- on the day that it was completed -- and fell silent for every hour following no matter what anyone did; and -- I just think that it is so silly, that they have found permanence on paper when I have not. 

Or perhaps I just hope for a fairy-tale ending. The best books always had the happy ones.

I hope you are living a soldier’s life from the books, my dear. Increasingly, as more of ours return home -- I fear that it is not.

Ellie

~ * ~

April 29, 1917

My dear Will,

I know I may be out of practice with my maths as I only keep one set of books, now, but -- have the sums you’ve been forwarding home from your salary increased? Whatever have you done this time? I am almost tempted to send this letter just to see if you will respond. I would like the reassurance that whatever it is, it isn’t like the Somme.

But enough of that. I won’t send this; I keep my promises. Just know that it is greatly welcomed. Your father insists we do not send for the doctor, but of late it has become a greater necessity. This will help with the medicines that ease the pain he swears he isn’t troubled by.

Your mother has come up with the most clever method of dealing with our daughters’ excess energy: she has conscripted them into tending the garden. Hortensia in particular enjoys it, although Calpurnia seems to spend most of the time locating new and more varied insect life.

As of yet, she has discovered Aphids on the roses, and ladybirds on the potato sprouts, and some sort of cocoon life has taken hold on the shrubbery. We are doing our best to dissuade her from starting to collect them for keeping under her bed, though I fear it is only a matter of time.

My brother seems to be in high spirits these days. He smiles more and Mum reported that he laughed the other night at dinner. I’m glad he is becoming comfortable being around us again.

I hope that you are well. It may no longer be so cold, but I still find I sleep poorly without you beside me.

With all of my love,

Ellie

~ * ~

May 20, 1917

Will,

With the days so long, now, I find myself with a great deal of time at the end of the day. Remember how we used to spend these evenings after supper, before we had Hortensia? I find I crave that time we shared, almost on the same level as those green tomato preserves I craved when we were expecting Calpurnia. 

I dream of it. Sometimes, I just lie on the bed with the lamp off and watch the twilight fade, and in that dream space, I can almost feel I am with you. But of course you are not. I always feel awfully hollow when I must rejoin the rest of the household.

Your wife,

Ellie

~ * ~

June 18, 1917

Dearest William,

Each day drags on like the last. I’ve never known a summer to be so lack-luster. Everyone seems to lack energy, though perhaps that is in how we must all fight for what meat or margarine or sugar or flour there is. You never know who has supplies, these days; sometimes your mother or I will see a line on our way to market and simply join it. We haven’t any idea what is there, but we can’t afford to go without.

I fell into despair for the last few weeks, I missed you so; your father was quite irked with my unwillingness to spar with him over the dinner table. Your mother finally suggested I do something productive, for myself. “You always tell such lovely stories to the girls at bedtime,” she said to me, which I felt was absolute nonsense, but she extracted a promise from me to write them out -- a sort of record, I suppose. 

So far I’ve only written down what I’ve told them since I started -- noting down a few lines before I turn in, myself. But at least it keeps me from spending hours fretting over an empty bed.

All my love,

Ellie

~ * ~

July 22, 1917

My dear,

Your father does his best. It is incredible to me that we learnt -- nearly a year ago, now -- how he had such a short time remaining with us; and yet each day he gets up and gives your mother and I hell over breakfast before he goes and sets himself up in the workshop to spend the day hemming and piecing and whatever else it is you tailors do.

I came across some photographs of your parents the other day, though, and it was just a shock. I suppose the changes have been so gradual we haven’t noticed them, living with him as we are, but -- it is so clear that he is ill, now. We’ve all lost weight to be sure, but it seems as though the flesh has melted from him like candle-wax. He’s all bone, now, long and lanky as you are, but all stripped down. 

I worry for him, and us, and you most of all -- I know we should have told you when you were here with us last year. But I know you couldn’t have borne the weight of that news, either.

Your loving wife,

Ellie

~ * ~

August 18, 1917

William Schofield,

Hortensia turns seven years old today. Weeks ago, your mother and I asked what she would like for her birthday celebration, and promised we would do our best to try for it; I thought she would ask for a cake, or some fruit -- maybe a doll. But she asked if I would write to you and ask you to come home.

I was very tempted. If there is anyone I’d break my promise to you for, it would be for our daughter. But I -- it must be the hardest thing I’ve ever done, telling her no. Instead I gave her one of the photographs we have of you; and I sat with her and read all the letters you sent to me before last October out loud for her to hear.

She remembers you better than Calpurnia. Sometimes I fear I love her more than our second daughter, for that alone. I fear that if you die, it will be just your mother and I who remember you -- and I know I shall outlive your mother. ~~In my darker moments, I think that I could not bear to live in a world where you are someone only I know.~~ It comforts me that Hortensia still remembers you allowing her into the workroom to play at stitching with scraps of cloth and carpet needles.

I do not think I will be able to sleep tonight. I’ve a story in mind to set down; I hope it takes a marvelously long time. I don’t want to spend another night in our bed alone. 

Mary Eleanor Schofield

~ * ~

October 10, 1917

Will,

It has been one full year, now.

Come back to us. Please.

Ellie

~ * ~

October 28, 1917

My love,

I know how Hortensia felt, asking for you for her birthday naught two months ago. I locked myself in our room and cried for an hour when your mother suggested quietly that I write to you on my own behalf. But if I didn’t do it for Hortensia, I certainly shouldn’t do it for me.

Halloween approaches. It is natural the girls want to hear stories of ghosts and goblins, witches, and things that spook and frighten. I find my night-time stories for them have produced a new hero to them: a girl who finds and befriends a ghostly dog. 

Both Hortensia and Calpurnia are riveted by her adventures. I have been recording them faithfully; perhaps I will show them to you when you come home.

Come back to me,

Your wife

~ * ~

November 25, 1917

Dear Will,

Your father has taken a turn for the worse. We fear there isn’t much longer for him, but he refuses to speak of it. 

It takes him many minutes now, but he still insists on going down to the kitchen each morning and into the workshop during the day. I put my foot down and insisted we make up a pallet, much though your uncle and your father argued against it -- your uncle on the grounds it took up valuable work space, your father on the grounds of pride. Your mother sided with me, however, and so we are the victors of that particular battle.

Much though your father argued against it, I have come into the shop more than once to find him making use of it. My heart aches. ~~I think he is holding out to see you once more before he goes. It has been so long since October before last, I despair -- I dread that we may never see you again, and your father will go to his grave still waiting.~~

I find it hard to take up my pen these days. I try, but there are some nights when I cannot seem to find a story to tell the girls. I pull out my scribblings and read one of the old ones for them, then.

If God has any mercy at all, you will come home to us.

Love,

Ellie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly (and most importantly) it was Pavuvu's birthday a few days ago (on the 3rd!)! She put great effort into making these letters TRULY INCREDIBLE, GUYS. If it weren't for her, I personally think these would have turned out very boring indeed -- or just been posted much, much later than their already late posting.
> 
> Secondly, we would like to reassure you all, dear readers, that work is progressing with the next chapter. It is at 4k at the moment but we know precisely where it is going to go; I think we can safely say that it is probably going to turn out to be another massively lengthy 20k chapter. Expect it to be posted in the next two weeks, probably on a weekend. 
> 
> Thirdly, thank you all for your incredible support and appreciation of this work. We couldn't do this without you, guys <3 Comments are always welcome, here or on tumblr: Pavuvu's @marbat and I'm @lizofalltrades!
> 
> If you are in need of more to read, our recommendations stand, as ever! You may want to particularly keep an eye on LadyCharity's "here be dragons," though . . . ;)
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> There really aren't any, but if you are interested in reading more about what kind of work Charlotte's sister was performing, check out this fascinating article on the Barnbow Lasses! https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/HistoryofBritain/Barnbow-Lasses/


	3. tgb: January 17th - February 12th, 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _the guns below_ Part 2: Will faces the consequences of remaining disconnected from his family at home; Joseph faces the consequences of not remaining disconnected enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5/30/2020 -- chapter has undergone some moderate revisions since originally being posted on 5/15/2020; I promise it is VASTLY better, now.

_January 17th, 1918 -- Passchendaele, Belgium_

Even in the back of the line, the mud is horrendous.

Will picks his way through the muck carefully. The ground isn’t as bad as the remains of the line outside Ypres, but it is still very sloppy: his feet frequently sink down past his ankles, or deeper. Keeping the men’s feet free of rot is going to be hell.

It is gray and dreary all around; there are clouds hiding the sun -- remnants from the storm system that swept through and flooded the area -- but it is still uncommonly warm for January. (Or so they say. It is, as Tom would say, still bloody freezing.) Along with every other man on the line, Will prays for a frost that will harden the ground and make it firm enough not to be a constant hazard.

. . . Only a day back at the Front, and Will hates it already. 

He pauses and leans out of the way of a queue of weary soldiers heading up towards the front line. His wife’s letters seem to burn through his clothing where he keeps them -- the ones from the first bundle are in his tin, and the second bundle is carefully wrapped in wax paper and stored in his pack. Will did his best to try to read them in the down time he had traveling back to the 2nd Devons. But there was a reason he suggested that they keep all their letters and exchange them in one go, too. 

Will is under no illusions about his lack of character in this regard. If he were a better husband, he would have been able to read each letter as they came and respond in due time. If he was a better father, he would be clinging to each word of his children his wife writes, looking to the mail delivery for each new arrival. 

Instead, Will did his best to block them out. It hurt too much to hear about them out here, where he is as far from home as can possibly be -- when he has no power to return and wants nothing more than to be back with them. He may have wanted to do his duty for England when he volunteered in 1915 -- and perhaps, though he will never admit this so long as he lives, have something like the adventure in the books his wife loves to share with him -- but now he knows the truth: no duty, and certainly no adventure, is worth all . . . _this._

And what a price he has paid for his selfishness, he thinks bitterly. Will knows now precisely how painful every moment of his silence was for his wife. He read Ellie’s letter from December 23rd of two years ago on one of the trains back out to the Front and had been unable to read any further letters since then, it had torn at him so.

Now, they burn a hole in his pocket. This is what he had asked for -- a respite from the constant yearning -- but it turns out he only postponed the pain. And it is so hard to face it and force himself to _read the damn letters._

Will finds he has been staring blankly at a trench wall for a good several moments. Anxiety claws at him. He must read the letters, even if reading them hurts. Will is also acutely aware that death is a very real possibility, and if he dies with his wife’s words as yet unread, he has no doubt the guilt would shred whatever little spirit is left in him before he got to his grave safely.

Roughly, he shakes himself out of it. He is due back at the dugout; Joseph had indicated that he wished to speak with Will about whatever innocuous topic they could come up with as a cover for discussing Tom’s recovery. And the weather is still miserable enough out here that Will has no desire to be outside if he can manage.

In this part of the line, there has been frequent bombardment -- frequent enough that even in the rear, most billets for the troops are dugout barracks of varying sizes. The dugout 5th Platoon is billeted in is not one of the ones that collapsed in the storm, fortunately, but it seems it was more due to better construction than any less mud: the floor has been awash with muck even over the duckboards, and the whole smells miserably of the damp. 

Most of the men are not inside, besides two who are napping in their bunks (Private Campbell and one private who is new to Will) and a group of card players wearily going through the motions -- Private Kimberley is dealing, so there’s no intent to out-cheat each other. The lack of men is probably due to the events of a few nights ago; Will can imagine how having one’s previous shelter collapsing on top of you would leave a lasting impression. Still, Farley is here too (albeit close to the door), grousing about something as he squints through several sheets of paper in the watery sunlight, and _he_ was one of the ones they had to dig out.

“Lieutenant Blake not in, yet?” Will asks him.

Farley shakes his head. “No, Sarge,” he says. “He went to see Captain Richards about something. He mentioned he’d be back in an hour.”

“When did he leave?” 

“‘Bout an hour ago.”

“Right,” Will says. “Thank you, Corporal.”

He looks around, assessing. Mud, everywhere. The smell of wet wool and unwashed men. Mold. It’s a far cry from his and his wife’s room in his old home . . .

Will stuffs that back. No time to think on it: Joseph will be back soon enough, which means Will should check on Tom. He moves a little out of the way of the doorway so that people can pass him without interrupting him, but he wants to be able to see what it is he is looking at, too. Will pulls his tin from his breast-pocket and opens it, trying not to wince as he leafs through the letters -- read and unread -- to feel out Tom’s spirit puddled at the bottom, beneath the photos.

From what Joseph told him, Tom had been very nearly in the same state as he had in Ypres. Possibly worse -- nearly a month apart from Will had been exactly as damaging as Will had feared it might be. (Will doesn’t think he is going to forget any time soon how Joseph was nearly in tears with what was probably guilt while he told Will about the clear evidence that Joseph could not, in fact, act as an anchor. Seeing Tom thin away like that must have been nothing short of a nightmare for his older brother.) 

Now, Tom is -- he’s there. His presence is significantly stronger than it was when Will arrived yesterday. Will wonders if he can perhaps try some form of communication that isn’t calling Tom out, yet? He rubs at the bottom of the tin with his finger as he thinks about it. Maybe, if he trying reaching out like _this --_

“-- so then I says to him --” 

A large group comes through the doorway. The man in the lead, Private Brandt, is preoccupied with recounting his story and knocks straight into Will. His tin -- with Tom, the photos, and Ellie’s letters -- tumble out of his grasp and scatter into the mud.

“Oh, sorry mate --” and if Will weren’t too busy staring in horror, he’d doubtless find the double-take Brandt does when he sees he slammed into the Sergeant and his subsequent stammered apologies amusing. 

As it is, things seem to move honey-slow as his skin crawls. “No,” Will says in flat disbelief. This is too cruel. He hasn’t even finished reading them --

Adrenalin slams into him. If he gets them up fast enough, maybe they can be saved. Will scrambles for a solution even as he rescues the closest one from where it had been slowly sinking into the water that collected in someone’s boot print.

He tries to wipe the excess muck off of it. Will’s hands shake, badly. All that control he’s spent years developing so that he can maneuver a needle and thread with utmost precision seems to have utterly deserted him. 

“No, no,” he mutters, gently trying to clear off the mud without grinding it into the pulp of the paper. It is swiped off in clumsy, broad strokes. The wet makes the paper even more delicate. “No, no, no no no.” 

“Sir, are you --”

“Fuck off,” Will says. He feels feverish. They mustn’t be ruined, they mustn’t; Ellie wrote them for him and he hasn’t read them all yet, he _must_ read them -- 

\-- this is the first one he read, the one she wrote near her birthday. He wipes at it too hard and it tears along the line where it was folded. “No!”

“Sarge,” Farley says, too loud to ignore. So is the hand that clamps down on Will’s shoulder, pushing him back until his knees hit something and he topples back into a seat, startled into looking up at the Corporal’s face. “Sarge, it’s all right. We’ve got you, alright?”

Will sees some of the others gathered around with concern writ large in their expressions. Kimberley holds a few of the letters carefully with both hands; one of the newer soldiers is picking up another from the floor. 

“Come on, give it here,” Farley says, using the exact same tone that Will would have used were their positions reversed. 

“I can’t,” Will tells him, helpless. “I haven’t finished reading them yet -- I can’t --”

“Let us help,” Farley argues, his tone of calm cracking in the face of Will’s opposition. He reaches out and tugs at the letter in Will’s grip. Will sees red. 

The next thing he’s aware of is of some of the men between them, shouting. Others are pulling him back. He is straining with all of his might against their hold to get at Farley, who is backing away and looking alarmed. His lip is bloodied. Will blinks at the sight and falters.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” thunders someone from the entrance. Everything seems to de-escalate further and Will is left totally adrift, gasping for breath, and very confused whilst Lieutenant Blake looks over them all and pinpoints immediately the two involved in the conflict. Will staggers back with the aid of guiding hands and sits down, heavily, into the seat he vacated. The letter is torn nearly in half, he sees, and he has to cover his mouth to stifle the noise of despair it wrenches out of him. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes convulsively. 

“Out, out,” he hears. “Give us a moment. --No, give me that, Kimberley. You too, Merton. Farley --” Lieutenant Blake’s voice drops so that Will cannot hear it, but whatever it is he says, it goes uncontested. The sounds of men leaving the dugout fade.

“Will,” Joseph says, when the noise dwindles to an outside murmuring of chatter. “Will -- look. I’ve got the letters; they’re safe, all right?”

Will shakes his head. He can’t look at him. “No,” he says, breath hitching in his throat in the most peculiar way. “I dropped them in the mud, they’re ruined. I --”

“No, no,” Joseph says, tone soothing. Will feels it when he puts his hand on Will’s shoulder, sliding the grip so that he cups the back of Will’s neck. He senses Joseph draw in close, tugging Will forward so that they are pressed forehead to forehead and Will can feel that solidity, that stalwart character that makes Joseph Blake such a good officer. “Will. Look at me. You know I wouldn't lie to you: it's all right.”

Will really can’t do that at the moment. He hiccoughs hugely and just tips helplessly further until he’s weeping into the muddied and sensible wool shoulder of Joseph’s uniform. He manages to get a grip on something -- the back of it, maybe, or Joseph’s shoulder strap and that’s it. He just shakes.

Joseph, bless him, takes this all in stride. He makes comforting noises and doesn’t shy from the embrace, wrapping his other arm around Will and it’s so, so much like Mother or -- or Papa -- when Will was younger, and he just -- he just -- 

Will doesn’t know how long it takes, but it cannot be more than a minute or so before he starts to think again. He feels a fine tremble in Joseph’s frame and realises his friend has been half-kneeling in the most awkward position the entire time. But it still takes another minute before Will succeeds in regaining the control that will allow him to begin to pull away. “Sorry,” he says when he finally manages, voice hoarse. “‘M sorry. Didn’t mean to put you out.”

Joseph doesn’t look the slightest bit bothered by any of it -- he has no disdain for the mess Will made of his shoulder, nor that which Will would expect for someone who couldn’t keep it together. The worst Joseph does is make a face and emit a slightly comical groan as he gets back on his feet and locates a proper seat to drag forward so that they are on an even level. Will scrubs furiously at his eyes, trying to rub sense into his brain.

“Right,” Joseph says patiently once he’s settled. “I’ve got this bunch of letters here. They don’t look too badly mussed.” He shows the ones Kimberley collected. Will closes his eyes tightly for a moment, as if that will remove the reality before him -- one of them is clearly ruined.

“Merton had these as well,” Joseph goes on, nodding to a small, damp stack. They all appear to be jumbled together, with some letters more and others less dirtied. “Let’s go through them and see what’s unsalvageable, shall we?” 

It is at this point that there is a flutter of movement by the entryway, a set of eyes peeking in and just as quickly ducking away. Privacy is as always in short supply on the line, but at least the men are trying. 

Will hiccoughs again but he’s seemingly lost the ability to feel much beyond a hazy numbness. He nods and takes the ones Joseph hands him, and allows Joseph to gently extract the remnants of Ellie’s first letter.

Together, they sort through the lot. At the end of it, they are all salvageable, though some are very much stained and parts of others are illegible. Joseph helps him spread them flat across his and Joseph’s bunks until they are able to dry -- those are the only areas that will both remain relatively unoccupied and be where Will has something remotely like a guarantee that the men won’t blatantly attempt to sneak looks at them. 

“If we borrow that primus stove the men have, we might manage something faster,” Joseph jokes a little, undeterred by Will’s absolute despair. 

“I’ve already got them muddy. God help me if they went up in flame as well,” Will replies weakly, trying and mostly failing to soften the ragged tell in his voice. By now, Will is not feeling so much as though he wants to die, but rather as though he really just needs some rest. 

Joseph does Will the courtesy of pretending to be convinced nevertheless. “Well, now that we’ve gotten that sorted out,” Joseph says, changing the subject, “do you mind telling me what happened?”

Will looks at the letters, spread out in front of him. “These got knocked all over the floor,” he says. “I -- overreacted.”

“Letters from home?” Joseph prompts gently.

Will rubs his face. The urge to confess his guilt is overwhelming, which is probably why he keeps talking. “Letters from my wife. We -- kept all we’d written over the last year or so and exchanged them while I was on leave.” He shrugs a little, some of the anxiety managing to seep in through the numbness; he can feel his shoulders creeping up around his ears. “I haven’t finished reading them.”

Joseph gives him a sharp look. Will gets the sense that Joseph is considering what to say and something like concern bleeds into his expression -- but then one of the men who wasn’t present earlier walks in through the entrance, oblivious to the shouted warning by Kimberley, and has the time for a startled moment of panic upon seeing just the two of them in the dugout before he is yanked out again by the men waiting outside.

It breaks the moment. Joseph clearly wants to inquire, but they haven’t any more time to do so. Will isn’t sure if he is relieved by that or not.

“Right,” Joseph says. “Well, if you need another minute --”

Will shakes his head, recalling his senses at last. “No,” he says. “I’ll be all right. Really,” he adds, seeing Joseph’s frank look of skepticism. “Let me just -- I’ll need to apologize to Farley, but I will be fine. I promise.”

“All right,” Joseph says, clearly unconvinced -- but he is willing to let it go for now; it will have to do. 

~ * ~

_January 19th, 1918 -- in transit to Steenvoorde, France_

Tom feels the energy to stir at last. He stretches, yawning hugely; it feels like he’s finally awake and aware, like a good night’s sleep and a full meal and probably some sort of spiritual confession all rolled into one.

He is surprised to see that he is on a train. It is very late; the window outside is dark. Around him, several men in uniform are unconscious, lulled into sleep through the rocking of the cars on the tracks. He squints at them; some are familiar. This is 5th Platoon. 

Closest to the compartment door, and looking out at the aisle, is Joe. “Oi!” Tom hisses at him. “Joe! What’s going on?”

Joe startles something fierce. He looks around wildly, taking care not to jostle the man next to him -- now that Tom looks closer, he sees that it is Will, who is asleep -- and spots Tom. For a second, Joseph looks as though he could die from relief. “Oh, thank God,” he says, and elbows Will.

At Joe’s shove, Will jerks awake, head lifting off Joe’s shoulder as he, too, startles. He spots Tom and blinks, momentarily uncomprehending, before something like a smile emerges. 

“Good morning,” he murmurs with just the faintest trace of a slur marking how much sleep he still needs. “Have a nice rest there, Corporal?”

“Not half as nice as you could be getting if Joe didn’t wake you,” Tom retorts, and glares at Joe. “Listen to him! Still slurring and everything. Shame on you for waking him up.”

Joe’s face goes through several incredibly hilarious expressions. “Fuck you,” he settles on whispering, sounding incredulous. “For fuck’s sake, Tom, I thought you were _dead._ Honestly dead!”

“Well I’m not,” Tom says, unrepentant. “You finally figured out what to do, right?”

“I didn’t want to learn that by putting your existence on the line!”

Will reaches up and around awkwardly, still trying to figure out where his limbs should be going, and pats Joe’s head. “It’s fine, he’s fine,” he assures Joe, sitting up and slowly looking more awake. Then, to Tom, he says “You’ve been out for three and a half days. Next time, effing let us know if you’re not doing well, alright?”

Well . . . okay, fine. Tom probably should’ve let Joe know. “Fine,” Tom mutters, turning to Joe. “But can you stop pulling me into that ring? I swear, it’s just painful. It was fine when it was the tin but -- not that ring, please.”

Joe looks like he’s been stabbed. (Tom would know. Or he would if someone’d had a mirror? Damn, even his own jokes sound like shite these days.) 

“It’s yours, though,” his brother says.

“Oh.” Tom doesn’t know what to say to that. It might have been his ring, for all Tom remembers, but now? Now it just -- it’s not good, that’s all. He’d really rather have nothing to do with it if he could help.

“How’re you feeling?” Will asks. As Tom watches, Will pulls himself together, becoming more aware by the second. Tom . . . would rather that didn’t happen, honestly; Will really looks like he could use his sleep. How bad was his leave, anyway, that he comes back looking like he’s half-dead?

Wait -- he said Tom had been out for three days. So maybe it’s something else. 

“I’m feeling fine,” Tom tells them, for once entirely truthful about it. “Wouldn’t mind something good to eat, though.”

Joe and Will snort, very nearly at the same time. Will notices one of the men stirring and places a cautionary hand on Joe’s elbow, drawing his attention to it.

Right -- they need to be quiet. “Well, and better, anyway,” Tom admits more seriously. “Sorry for worrying you two.”

“You’d better be,” Joe mutters, but Tom doesn’t think he intended to be heard. Will accepts the apology with a matter-of-fact nod.

Tom changes the subject. “So when did you get back?” he asks. “And why were you so late? We heard you got an extension, but we never heard why. Was everything all right?”

Will grimaces and rubs his eyes, getting sleep out of them. He takes a careful look around the compartment while he’s at it, but the men around them are quiet again. “I got back on the 16th,” he murmurs. “It’s the 19th -- actually, probably the 20th, now.” He checks his watch. “Yeah, it’s the 20th.”

Tom sputters. “You were supposed to be back on the 12th! You really left me out to hang.”

Tom regrets saying it almost immediately -- Will winces and looks haunted for a moment. Joe pinches his nose and looks at the ceiling, which tells Tom he’s really stuck his foot in it this time.

“I’m sorry about that,” Will says. He looks like he’s about to leave it there, but Joe pokes him in the side and whispers something that sounds like “not your fault,” clearly prompting him to go on. “I -- when I was home I found out that my father was dying. I had to stay a little longer to help settle his affairs.”

Tom _really_ regrets what he said, now. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, Will -- mate, I’m so sorry.”

Will shrugs. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. Given the stricken look on his face, Tom doesn’t think Will has really come to terms with that news yet, even with knowing about it for at least a few weeks (presumably).

“Were you able to get everything sorted?” Tom asks. Since it’s Will, he probably did; maybe Will can take comfort in that success?

Will’s face is closing off. “Mostly.”

“Mostly -- oh.” Tom thinks he knows what that means. “Oh, Will -- you didn’t, did you? Please tell me you didn’t have to --” because it would just be so _wrong_ if Will was home on leave, but still forced into the deadman’s duties; and especially if it was for his own father. Tom feels his skin crawl at how wrong that seems.

Joe is shifting uncomfortably -- Tom wonders if this has already come up and if he’s putting his foot in it again. But -- “No,” Will replies, seeming to understand what Tom is getting at. “He . . . he hadn’t passed by the time I left back for the line. I am just going to have to -- have to trust that the Grim will see him safe.”

“Damn,” Tom says, because of _course_ that would rub Will the wrong way. Will doesn’t leave things undone; it must be grating. And -- he must be waiting on the news, then. That must be awful.

There is a loud whistle from the train. They must be approaching the station. It is loud enough to wake most of the men, anyway, which means that their conversation must come to an end. Tom sighs; it will be boring when neither of them can answer him, busy as they are with getting the men into order as they find their billet, but there will be time enough for them in the morning, probably.

~ * ~

_January 25th, 1918 -- Steenvoorde, France_

Time off the line is never truly a break for rest; time off the line usually just means training. Joseph sighs into his plate in the officer’s mess. He’s spent the morning and afternoon with Will and the rest of 5th Platoon, drilling. His throat aches from the sheer amount of shouting he’s had to do. Somehow, fighting on the Front doesn’t require quite the same protracted output of volume, vocally speaking. If only the tea weren’t so awful -- adding brandy or whiskey to it never seems to have quite the same effect as at home, but Joseph does it anyway. He sips what he’s got and winces at the burn. In about ten minutes, it will all be nicely numbed.

“Drilling is such a bore,” Richards says, in a similar state. This is probably the third time he’s uttered that particular pun, still waiting for Joseph to comment on it. Or he’s just as wrecked as Joseph is, attention only half-there; Joseph can’t decide. Off the line they all get more rest, since it is not punctuated by irregular bombardments, but this somehow just seems to make everyone _more_ tired.

He sips more tea and offers the flask of whiskey he’s got in Richards’s direction. “Yeah, all right,” replies Richards, rubbing at his eyes. He holds his mug out for Joseph to pour it into.

“Any exercises more advanced than drilling and organisation?” Joseph asks wearily. 

“In a few days the specialists start training,” Richards tells him. “Bloody hell to coordinate all that, let me tell you. For everyone else, it’s training in consolidating shell-hole positions.”

“Are they anticipating many shell-hole positions in our future?”

Richards shrugs. “It’s useful to know, I guess,” he answers. “They’ve got some strategies for drying them out. They might even work if we go back to Passchendaele.”

Joseph only barely manages to stifle the groan this wrests from him. He’s so tired of bloody _mud._

“Cheers,” he says, a bit gloomily. They clink their mugs together and Joseph starts thinking about tomorrow’s schedule. It is, as it was today, more drilling. He wonders if there’s some meeting he can join, or any other way he can get out of it, if only so he got a break from having to yell. 

“Oh, but I forgot,” Richards says suddenly, with a bit more enthusiasm. “It’s your turn; you’re off for leave starting the 28th.”

Joseph is pulled out of his thoughts with a snap. “What?”

“I’m giving you 14 days -- that should help offset the travel time,” Richards tells him, seriously. “And try not to take too long on the return. I’m up for leave in a month and I’m not going until you’re back -- you’re the senior Lieutenant, if you recall! The Company will be in your hands while I’m gone.” 

“Oh. I see,” Joseph says blankly. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Don’t thank me, you’ve already been delayed long enough. It’s been a miserable winter,” Richards replies. 

Fortunately, the conversation dwindles after that. Joseph finishes his meal, thoughts conflicted: on the one hand, he will have a nice respite at home -- and home would be very welcome now, as even he is not immune to the post-holiday longing to be somewhere more amenable. On the other hand, he will have to actually go home. It didn’t feel right, being at home for so long -- being at home at all -- last August and September; Joseph can’t help but feel trepidation at the thought of leaving France and his men.

Not to mention, his brother. Tom is finally doing better, thank goodness. A month of watching his brother waste to a shadow of himself was enough to give Joseph nightmares -- he’d had one last night, in fact; thank God Clive drank more than Joseph did, for he didn’t even twitch when Joseph woke up shouting -- and now that Tom was back to being more himself, Joseph was starting to enjoy having a brother again.

\--Tom might want to come. Joseph feels slightly ill at the thought -- he can’t act as an anchor, and so soon after everything that happened! --no, Will won’t let Tom go. Joseph isn’t sure if he should be relieved that Will is as fierce at safeguarding Tom as Joseph might have been, given the chance to be in the same regiment. But never mind all that. Taking Tom home was out of the question, certainly.

Footsteps, speeding up briefly behind him -- “Out for your evening walk, Lieutenant?” Will asks. 

Joseph almost wishes he could say he was more surprised with the way his Sergeant managed to show up at exactly this moment in time, but maybe it’s just how Joseph has been working hard not to startle at ghosts. Either way, it is entirely unsurprising to turn and see Will fall into step with him. 

Strangely, Tom isn’t in sight at the moment. Joseph wonders where he has got to and says as much, seeing that they are, at present, alone.

“Oh, he’s off looking for something to eat,” Will answers vaguely. “I doubt he’ll be long.”

Sure enough, Tom comes into view a moment later. He’s walking with a group of Privates from mixed regiments, looking bored. He spots them and diverts to join up; Joseph purposefully turns off the little lane they are on and heads for a more deserted area, knowing the two of them will follow. 

“I’m up for a trip home,” he says as they walk. “I’m off to Halifax on the 28th.”

Will shoots him a startled look, clearly picking up on Joseph’s reservations about it. Tom does not; he shouts with indignation. “What? Already? Will just got back and you’re to go off, too?”

“Captain Richards is up for it next, and he isn’t going to chance us both going at the same time,” Joseph replies. “I’m senior Lieutenant; he’s putting me in charge when he leaves.”

Will says nothing and looks thoughtful -- his usual, when Tom is around to do the talking for him. It’s something Joseph has noticed in the past, and he is surprised to find it irritating now. His Sergeant spent almost a month at home; how did he manage it?

Tom looks like he really wants to hit something, his expression simultaneously envious and furious. He puts both hands in his hair, displacing his helmet, and groans. “Joe, you’ve all the luck! The cherry preserves -- maybe Mum’ll make you eggnog --”

“--the balls, yes, Mother shoving me at every young woman in the county, yes,” Joseph retorts. “Truly, Tom, I am doing this entirely to put you out.”

Tom is entirely unimpressed. “So just slip away, Joe, it’s not that hard to get out of it --”

“Not for _you_ \--”

Will grips Joseph’s shoulder and squeezes enough to get his attention, distracting him from his rising ire. “It’ll turn out alright,” he tells Joseph. “At the very least -- you’ll get a chance for something decent to eat.”

At the very least -- well, that’s true, Joseph supposes. At the very least, Joseph knows his parents would have written to him if something terrible were to befall them, so he won’t have any surprises like Will’s.

“How’re those letters coming along?” Joseph asks, changing the subject.

“Fine,” Will says after a moment. He is lying. It makes Joseph feel inexplicably tired -- it seems as though for all Will’s attempt at reassuring Joseph about his upcoming leave, Will doesn’t actually believe in any of it. 

Which is, frankly, a damn shame. Sure, Joseph might not be comfortable going back home -- but any officer knows the value of leave to a man on the line. It is the reminder of who they are and what they have to return to that most grounds soldiers on the battlefield. It isn’t healthy the way that Will keeps trying to block that out.

“What letters?” Tom asks.

“His wife’s letters,” Joseph tells him. Will stiffens and tries to elbow him; Joseph ignores it. “They exchanged them on his leave.”

“Shut up,” Will hisses at him, since Joseph isn’t paying any attention to the jabs Will is aiming at his ribs. 

“What, you kept all those letters? You never sent any of them?” Tom sounds just as horrified as Joseph was when he first found out.

Will hunches, shoulders hitting his ears. “Didn’t want the censors to read ‘em,” he mutters.

“You at least sent other ones, right?” Tom asks. “Just so that you both knew you were doing alright, yeah?”

Will’s silence is telling.

Tom’s voice hits shrill as he stops in his tracks and curses at full volume for a bit. Neither Will nor Joseph stop; Will shoots a glare at Joseph. “Now he’ll never let it go,” his Sergeant snarls at him in undertone when they are far enough away that Tom won’t hear.

“Good,” Joseph says to him grimly. “If you won’t talk to me about them, I know he won’t let you alone until you talk to _him.”_

It’s almost funny, the way Will can’t seem to decide whether to be furious, horrified, or amused. “You could have asked,” he says through gritted teeth.

“I just did,” Joseph reminds him, perhaps a little sharply. 

Will’s posture stays stiff for another moment, before it sags. “Yeah, alright,” he says, sounding just as tired as Joseph. 

Joseph figures that’s as close as he will get to an apology, which is fine; it’s plain to see Will is so wrapped up in his own head about this particular subject that he isn’t deliberately going out of his way to provoke others.

“It’s just -- I hate being here,” Will says suddenly. He doesn’t say it with anything like anger; all he sounds is old. “I hate all this. I hate not seeing them. And each time I -- whenever I’m reminded of them, I -- it reminds me that I’m not there.”

Joseph can understand that. Maybe if he only got to go back to his parents once a year, he’d be more eager to see them, too. 

“Letters aren’t the same, but they’re better than nothing at all,” Joseph says instead. Seeing the resistance, he touches his friend’s elbow gently. “It’s not bad to let yourself miss them, you know.”

Will sighs. “I’ll finish them,” he says reluctantly.

Tom jogs up to them in fine fettle and catches the end of that. “You had _better!”_ he hisses, and starts rattling through a mix of imprecations and lecture that, absurdly, seems to make Will relax. 

Joseph doesn’t know how Tom does it -- but he’s glad he does. It means that Joseph has the certainty of knowing that, when he returns, Will will be in better spirits and, hopefully, better-grounded. He and 5th Platoon will need it; from the mutters Joseph has heard in the darker corners of the officers’ club, he thinks the year is going to be a long one.

~ * ~

_February 1st, 1918 -- Steenvoorde, France_

Tom finds Will in the billet. It’s one of the rare days the men have off, with no training planned, and as a result, most of the men are lounging in the billet in high spirits, enjoying the time to relax.

Will is sitting in the back, patching up one of the holes in the elbow of his spare shirt. “News,” Tom says to Will. “Just got back from puttering around high command. Guess what? The Germans are coming!”

“Mail is here!” someone calls from the entrance. The chatter of the room rises suddenly, and there’s a scramble for the door.

Will gives him a bemused look. “The Germans are already here,” he says, words covered by the noise.

Tom takes a seat in the empty bunk next to Will. “Yeah, but not like this,” he says soberly. “They’ve got official intelligence that now, with the Russians out of the war, the soldiers from Germany’s other army are being shipped to France.”

Will’s hands still a moment, mouth thinning. “It’s to be expected, I suppose,” he says finally. And perhaps it is; Tom knows that everyone has been concerned about this exact thing happening since Russia pulled out of the war back in October last year. With winter soon to let up, it is no wonder that there is movement.

“How long do you think it will take before they’re out here, do you think?” Tom asks.

“Letter for you, Sarge,” Private Tyndall calls from the entrance of the billet.

Tom almost doesn’t hear him, preoccupied as he is with telling Will about the news he’d overheard in the officer’s mess. “What? Really?” he asks, startled.

Will never bothers to get up for the post, as he never gets any letters. Tom sees him look up, now, and the expression on his face closes off; but this does not seem to be as much a surprise to him as Tom would expect. Will gets up and goes over to Tyndall, accepting the letter with a word of thanks. He neatly slits the envelope open as he makes his way back to where he was sitting and pulls it out, reading as he goes.

The letter is short. Tom gets up and tries to read it over Will’s shoulder, but Will remains a good three inches taller than Tom, and his view is blocked. “What’s it say?” he asks.

Will pauses by his seat, still reading, lips moving a little as he skims through the words. His mouth presses shut abruptly and his shoulders sag; he closes his eyes briefly and sighs. “It’s my father,” he says quietly. “I asked Ellie to write to me when -- when he was gone.”

Oh. _Oh._ “I’m sorry.”

Tom watches his friend read through the last few lines of the letter before folding it up. Then he just stands and looks at the folded letter for a while as though he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“You should put it in your tin,” Tom tells him after a few minutes. “It’s worth keeping with the girls.”

Will makes a vague noise of affirmation, but he doesn’t move. He isn’t crying or anything; he’s just looking somewhere far, far away.

“News, Sarge?” one of the men asks.

Tom looks around with Will. Some of the Privates who hadn’t received any mail have gathered, standing a respectful distance away; seeing the avid curiosity on their faces tells Tom that the rest of the men have, actually, noticed how infrequently their Sergeant receives mail. 

“I -- yeah,” Will says, and looks at the letter again.

“You can tell them, you know,” Tom murmurs, watching Will think of what to say. “They’d understand.”

“News from my wife,” Will says after a moment. “My father passed.”

Several of those listening make sympathetic noises. “Terrible news, Sarge,” Kimberley says. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, Sarge,” says Private Campbell. This is echoed by the others. 

Will gets a round of sympathetic pats as the men come back into the billet and get back to what they were doing. Will seems bemused by how many of the men seem to manage to circulate around and say a few words of condolence to him personally, especially those who hear the news after the fact. By the end of it, Will at least isn’t staring into the mid-distance anymore; and he seems looser, somehow.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Tom says to him when the men finally settle and everyone seems to have come by. 

Will shakes his head slightly and sits at last. He takes out his tin.

The inside is packed, stuffed with bits of folded paper. “Whoa!” Tom says in surprise. “Are those all from your wife?”

“Yes,” Will says, softly. He touches them lightly. “The ones from the first bundle, at least.”

“How many did she write?” Tom asks, astounded. These letters are stained with muck, long since dried, but he can still read a little of one even from here -- something about Calpurnia’s birthday. “Wait -- was Calpurnia born in March? Isn’t that when your birthday is?”

Will stares at the letters, hesitating to put in the latest. “Read them,” he says abruptly.

“What?”

“You can read them,” Will amends, voice rough. “While I’m asleep -- I don’t know. Read them, though.”

Tom is scandalised. “What? No, they’re yours. And private,” Tom adds. He’s not sure what married people write about to each other, but it is probably not something anyone else wants to read -- too much like being a voyeur. --Okay, that is not entirely true; plenty of the men read snatches of their letters for the others all the time. It would be weird because it’s Will.

Will snorts. “I’ve read them already, and I can assure you they’re not nearly as bad as you think they are,” Will says. He sounds amused, but there’s an edge of something else to his words. 

Tom looks at his friend. He isn’t sure what that other emotion is. Some sort of -- a sort of a plea to the offer? The letters remind Will of home; maybe Will is having a hard time managing that? Now that he thinks about it, Tom notices the brittleness to Will’s posture. And Joe did make certain Tom found out about these . . .

“Yeah, alright,” he says. Will doesn’t do anything so dramatic as sigh, but Tom can see the slight easing of his shoulders and the way Will leans slightly back into his seat. It’s a relief to him that Tom is willing to do this. 

And -- first bundle; there must be a second. Tom bets Will hasn’t started on those. “But while I’m doing that, you’d better get on with reading the rest of them,” he says lightly, making it a joke. “I’ll want the full story, you hear?”

Will makes a face, but even more tension eases out of him. “Deal,” he says quietly.

(Fanart created by the lovely @[FateRagalan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FateRagalan/profile)!)

~ * ~

_February 2nd, 1918 -- Halifax, England_

Joseph’s return to England is less cheerful on this occasion. Partly due to the weather, certainly -- when Joseph was last in Halifax, it was a lovely autumnal day in early October; he remembers there being some weak sun and blue skies peeking through clouds. Today it is sleeting, ice hissing against the train’s windows as they approach the station.

Likewise, Joseph is not so enthusiastic about being back. He had not had a problem with putting off his return home for even longer. Hell, if Will could have taken Joseph’s leave as well, Joseph might actually have seriously considered it. 

However, Joseph does have a duty to return home -- and he was not lying when he talked to Will about how important it was to remember one’s family in the war. He has been away since October, and it is time for him to return. 

The real source of the trepidation that curls uncomfortably in his gut, though, is Tom. It is two-fold. The last time he came home, Joseph had hoped that somehow, it would make Tom’s death easier -- hoped there would indeed be a chance to mourn properly. But it hadn’t turned out like that at all. Although he and Mother and Father had done some things more privately than that ceremony Mother arranged, none of it helped, really -- Joseph had gone back to the line feeling disconnected and still grieving. He does not expect that this time should be any different.

Then -- there is the obvious. Joseph dreads having to face his parents now, knowing what he does. Because -- it’s one thing, to mourn Tom’s death; it’s another, to know that his younger brother is still around. --And literally, too, not just that vague sort of religious platitude about loved ones always watching over you from Heaven. It’s -- it’s not a _good_ feeling; but Joseph knows that there is a joy to it, knowing that Tom is still here, and of all the other people in the world, his parents would best be able to appreciate it. Even Will can’t quite share that same joy.

But Joseph _can’t_ tell his parents. He has already thought this out and come to the conclusion that he cannot breathe a word of it. If learning of it nearly destroyed Joseph, it would certainly destroy his mother and father. Especially since -- the temptation . . . the temptation of seeing Tom again -- no. 

Joseph doesn’t think of that as being the primary motivation for his choice to accompany Will to the graveyard, because it wasn’t. But his parents are not in the same situation that he was then and still is, now.

He cannot possibly imagine how it would ever come up, in any case. What on earth would he even say? _Oh, by the way, Tom is fine -- he sends his regards_ or _yeah, so, remember about how Tom died? As it turns out . . ._ \--Because none of it even remotely approaches anything resembling adequate. The vastness of the -- the -- the situation is so . . . Well, Joseph has been trying to wrap his head around it the whole way home and he _still_ can’t seem to articulate it. The most he can determine is that, if at all possible, he should simply not bring up Tom. Or maybe just . . . not bring up anything, honestly. It’s not as though they want to hear about the realities of the Front in any case.

Mother and Father both are waiting for him at the station, standing close under an umbrella. Joseph can carry his own bag this time; it’s a relief. 

“Joseph!” his mother cries, hurrying out from under the umbrella to pull him into a hug. 

He can return her embrace without difficulty, but doesn’t spend long doing it. “Come on, Mother, get back under cover. You didn’t have to come see me in this weather,” he says, urging her back towards Father. 

Father also manages a swift greeting, merely clapping him on the back. “Welcome home,” he says, sounding reassuringly warm. “Now let’s get in the motorcar. We are all set to have tea once we return -- we can get some food in you.”

“Wonderful,” Joseph says, and despite the dreadful conditions, they are soon back at home.

Up in his room, Joseph is treated to a startling sight: a disgruntled-looking cat, who is missing an ear and half its tail, which winds itself between his legs almost as soon as he is through the door. 

“Well hello, there!” Joseph says, startled quite out of his apprehension. It’s the cat he persuaded Mother and Father to let him keep outside -- what is he doing in the house?

“Here you are, Mr Blake,” Minnie says, coming up behind him with some things for him to use to freshen up. 

“When has Archibald been allowed inside?” Joseph asks, picking up the cat and moving out of the doorway so that she can get in. Archibald purrs.

“Mrs Blake’s orders, I believe,” Minnie says. “She wanted it somewhere warmer than the garden.” 

“I see,” Joseph says. How thoughtful of Mother. He deposits Archibald on the bed and begins washing up in anticipation of tea in a slightly more cheerful mood.

Mother and Father are both already seated in the parlour when he is finished; he interrupts them in some low conversation. Mother turns to him, though, and smiles and gets up and insists on kissing his cheeks and holding him for some moments, commenting on how he’s become so thin, oh, and so pale -- he isn’t feeling ill, is he? 

“No no,” he reassures her, “they just don’t have so good a spread up at the Front -- no, it’s all right, Mother, come and sit back down . . .”

They have gone the whole nine yards for it. He recognises the scent of his favorite tea steeping in the pot. There are scones and clotted cream and cherry jam -- all his favorites. He feels uncomfortable at the trouble they’ve taken to welcome him back, when he can’t even tell them -- never mind. He shoves the reminder of Tom’s continued -- existence -- to the back of his mind, because even if he were to tell them anything, now would _not_ be the time or place for it.

Nevertheless, Joseph cannot shake his unease. It is even worse than the last time he was home, though he would have thought it wouldn’t have been so -- by the end of his leave he’d been ready to return, to be sure, but he had still seemed to adjust back to life in England fairly well. Now it seems as though whatever tricks he’d learnt have been thrown out the window.

Joseph can’t seem to sit still. This leads to the absurd but rising trepidation about being obviously fidgety. He reminds himself it is ridiculous to fret over being fidgety multiple times when he realises it, but he can’t quite lay it to rest. Joseph answers what questions are asked of him and does his best to contribute to the conversation, which is light -- but it is a strain. Mother does her best to keep it cheerful nevertheless, Father jumping in to speak more and more -- fairly unlike him, normally, but Joseph supposes that under the usual circumstances, he would be the one to fill in the gaps, and Father is simply picking up the slack. 

The longer it seems to drag on, the more Joseph wishes it were over already so that he could retire to his room to -- do something else. He keeps one eye on the clock. They began at half-past two and probably will end half-past three. The minute hand has never moved more slowly in its entire existence, he swears. 

Joseph almost makes it through the whole ordeal. But he doesn’t manage to hide the strain he is feeling of keeping it up, it seems, as Mother picks up on it and hits the limit of her tolerance for poor behavior. “Joseph, darling, you’re hardly hearing a word I’ve said. Really, dear, you can at least make an effort,” she comments sharply.

“Rose,” Father says, with gentle rebuke.

Joseph, meanwhile, flushes, feeling irritation crawl up his throat along with the spike in anxiety. He swallows it back and takes in a deep breath because she is, after all, correct. “My apologies, Mother,” he says stiffly.

“Accepted,” she says after a moment of narrow-eyed examination. It is clear she suspects he isn’t fully sincere (which, to be fair, is true). She sighs, though, and dismisses it. “It comes from not being home in a timely manner, I suppose,” she says. “Really, weren’t you supposed to be back with us a month ago?”

“Only a few weeks,” Joseph corrects, biting his tongue to keep from saying anything regrettable. She is making the effort to move on. He just has to get through this and likely, the conversation will dwindle naturally. “I wanted to permit my Sergeant to take some leave of his own.”

Instantly, he knows he misspoke. His mother stiffens dangerously -- she takes in a deep breath that has her nostrils flaring with characteristic indignation. “It’s very generous of you to put it off,” she says, and Joseph can see, very clearly, the anger at this new knowledge she is doing her best to conceal behind a veneer of manners. “But -- really, dear, for him?” 

Joseph knows she dislikes Will, even if he doesn’t fully understand _why,_ but by God: never has it irked him quite so much as it does right at this very moment.

Joseph abruptly loses the grip he’s worked so hard to maintain over his emotions and sets his teacup down with enough force to clatter the saucer dangerously. “Yes, Mother,” he retorts. “And if I should have had the chance to forfeit my leave to him for his use, I’m starting to think I would have jumped at the opportunity!”

Both of his parents recoil, Mother more so than Father. Mother has gone pale; Father is now looking very alarmed. 

“Joseph Andrew Blake, you take that back this instant,” Mother says in a low, trembling voice. Joseph has the distinct feeling that he is going to be sick.

“Rose,” Father says, interjecting firmly. Her attention turns to him; he gives her some look whose meaning Joseph cannot begin to interpret. Mother presses her lips together tightly even as colour flares high on her cheeks. 

Satisfied, Father turns to Joseph. “Joseph,” he chides. “That is no way to speak to your mother.” 

Joseph bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood. He looks down at his tea and sees he has chipped the china with the force of his temper a moment ago. Bile is in his throat, creeping up into the back of his mouth.

“I fear I must retire,” he says at last through his gritted teeth. It is the best he can manage. “I’m afraid my temper is not what it should be. I appreciate the tea.” And before he can give either of them the opportunity to scold him further, he gets up and retreats from the room.

~ * ~

_February 3rd, 1918 -- Halifax, England_

Joseph is able to make an appropriate overture of regret to his mother privately, the next day. She accepts it, and gives the semblance of returning to normal relations, but her mien towards him remains distinctly cool. Joseph knows he should care a lot more about that than he does, but he also can’t help feeling some sort of lingering resentment. He can’t even begin to place the reason for it, and any time he tries he just winds up angry again.

So it is a relief that she is gone for most of the day -- she has other business to attend to. Joseph spends the day settling back into country life, and by supper, all seems forgiven. 

As expected, Father invites Joseph for a post-supper drink in the study. Idly, Joseph wonders where the conversation will turn. It has been -- well, the war is still the same, he supposes; it’s been a long time since October, and there is much to catch up on that the censors may not have looked kindly upon. 

There is pleasant chatter, Father continuing with the conversation from dinner. Then, a digression; discussing the men Joseph leads, and their personalities: the ones who don’t take authority as opposed to the ones who do -- and of those, the ones who dissent but can be talked around; the ones who follow only because they know nothing better. Will would know more, but Joseph is able to provide appropriate anecdotes to suit each type, and despite himself, he feels how he relaxes with the familiarity of the conversational topic and the comforting company of his father, who manages somehow to blend into the background and let Joseph talk himself out.

But it is only after Minnie has long since been dismissed, even out of hearing of the servants’ bells, that Father broaches the topic that he has been most interested in. And when Father lets the lull transition naturally into another question, as though Joseph has just prompted it with some jogging of the memory, Joseph isn’t the least bit surprised to hear it turn to something he would rather not talk about. 

“That reminds me --” his father begins, transparently. “That letter, you sent -- dated the 4th of December. I was quite bemused by it -- whatever did you mean?”

Joseph would say he is ready for it, but -- quite frankly -- neither of his parents drink as one does at the Front, and it will take more than what he has consumed this evening to put him off his guard, let alone make him amenable enough to speak freely. It doesn’t matter how much Father has taken care not to be obvious as he avoids overindulging in his drinking throughout the evening, and isn’t that a funny thing to realise?

\--Truthfully, it does take Joseph a moment to remember that particular letter -- well, to remember the contents of it, at any rate. He must have rewritten it nearly ten times before he was satisfied and sent it off. “I don’t recall it off the top of my mind,” he replies, buying time, and tries very hard not to let the tension he feels show in his posture. “Can you refresh my memory?”

His father pauses, as though surprised, and gives Joseph a look. Joseph realises he’s not dissembling as well as he should, at the moment, but instead of addressing it, his father merely speaks with a telling eyebrow that Joseph had better be less obvious about it in the future.

“You mentioned trust,” his father says, eyeing him narrowly, “and overcoming it when it is broken. I believe -- though I am not certain, as you never named the person in question -- that you were speaking of your Sergeant. Would you care to enlighten me on this subject?” _Particularly given your reaction at tea, yesterday?_ is implied.

The response on the tip of Joseph’s tongue is _no, clearly,_ but Father continues, as though joking, “To ease your old father’s heart?” and -- well. That explains why Father did not intervene in the conversation yesterday sooner; whatever Joseph wrote those months ago had given Father cause for suspicion.

At least this time, the mood of the conversation is less fraught and Joseph is not in such a state. Joseph has time to think; he looks to the side, casting about for the right words. It is hard to come by them when his conscience as his father’s son is demanding he reveal Tom’s existence, while Joseph’s rational mind knows that such a thing would lead to nothing good.

Not that the conversation is even about Tom, in the first place! It is about Will. And if Joseph remembers that, he should -- he should be able to avoid saying too much.

But even focusing on Will, the words do not come easily. The thing is -- the thing is. It really isn’t Joseph’s secret to tell. It’s _not._ That’s why he didn’t tell Richards, back when Richards confronted him about it, after all. Even if it was some sort of secret organisation within the military, accepted by the higher echelons, Joseph doesn’t think Will would appreciate the notoriety. 

Although . . .

Father isn’t part of the army -- not a current member, anyway. He has his contacts, still, fine; but he is not someone engaged in ongoing operations, not even in consultation. He has retired and is living a quiet -- and private -- life. And he hasn’t steered Joseph wrong yet. (--but would he steer Will wrongly? Perhaps, but not if he knew the truth of it -- but no, Joseph is _not going to mention Tom_ \--)

Joseph makes his decision. He will have to speak carefully if he wants this to work. “I suppose that depends on your discretion in the matter,” Joseph says, knowing the exact effect this will have on Father.

He isn’t wrong. His father stiffens subtly in his seat at the rebuke that Joseph has no authority to give -- a challenge that Joseph is absolutely unqualified to issue. 

“I suppose I shall, if you explain what you mean by such a statement,” Father says after a marked pause, and gives up the pretense of being gently felled by his cups entirely. 

“It isn’t my secret to tell,” Joseph repeats aloud, and shakes his head when his father opens his mouth. “No -- I’ll say it anyway. But truly, it is in your hands. I wouldn’t know of this if I hadn’t chanced on it by accident.”

Joseph knows the expression he wears is one that conveys the utmost seriousness and thoughtfulness, and that his father will see it as well. Joseph feels slightly cheered that he doesn't entirely have to pretend to make it fit right. 

His father stares. 

“It must be very serious indeed,” Father says, evenly, and gestures towards the decanter of brandy on the side table. “Is this something I will want to be drinking for?”

Joseph can’t imagine what sort of story Father is expecting him to tell, but he is happy to have another drink. “Perhaps,” he says. “I don’t know if it will be as outlandish as you think, given your experience, but if it will make you feel better . . .”

And now that concern about Joseph's drinking, wrapped in disapproval, is back in full force. “Joseph.”

“For God’s sake,” Joseph says, feeling tested. He stops and breathes deeply, reining it in -- he does not want to spend tomorrow morning finding the time to apologise privately to Father. 

Fortunately, his father is a patient man. He says nothing and lets Joseph take the time he needs. 

When Joseph feels he is back in control, he continues. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Suffice to say that -- in this case -- it was enough of an issue for me to regret writing that letter, as I have since been proven most grievously wrong -- and if that isn’t enough detail, then open that bottle.”

Father gives him a truly worried look, now, and Joseph notes his father's hand hesitates before pouring them both another drink. He hopes that means his father will take him at least a little seriously, especially as Joseph’s stomach is sinking with the impending dread of realising that he didn’t actually expect his father to take him up on the offer.

\--and it would be too much of a tell to drink before letting it out. Damn! And Joseph must remain relatively in control, or else -- well, it _isn’t his secret._ Damn everything.

What can he say? 

“Have you heard about the deadman?” Joseph asks abruptly.

His father finishes his sip smoothly without the slightest hitch of breath. “In what context?”

“In the context of a military regiment.”

His father gives him a patently sort of obvious-but-politely-incredulous stare that fades back into concern. “Joseph -- if this is about the men in your command who don’t make it --”

It is obvious that he did not hear Joseph clearly and it is unbearably irritating. “You can write to your bloody contacts if you like,” Joseph snaps, and is immediately ashamed. Hadn’t he _just resolved_ not to spend tomorrow trying to apologise to Father? “I -- sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

His father, however, has frozen. 

“Do you mean -- as in, all one word?” he asks Joseph carefully. Even so, his normally unshaken father stumbles. Joseph finds it interesting in a detached sort of way. “The man who . . . the man responsible for --” 

“You’d best drink that,” Joseph says. He eyes his own with no small amount of resignation and downs it all in one go. It looks like Father does know something about this . . . which should make it easier for Father to infer the precise nature of Will’s relationship with Tom without Joseph having to go into it. 

When Joseph looks up again, his father is staring into the middle distance. He isn’t so far gone that he doesn’t react when Joseph takes the decanter and refills his own glass -- Father blinks and comes back to himself, rebuke automatic and something Joseph ignores entirely. He’s probably been on the Front too long, Joseph laments inwardly; he just does not seem to have the patience for coddling things along anymore with anyone who isn’t one of his men.

His father’s mouth thins. Perhaps he sees this too clearly on Joseph’s face. However, when he speaks again, it is about their present topic of discussion. “I’ve heard of it, yes,” he says, tone unusually tight. “It was a rumor amongst the officers when I was a Lieutenant and later, when I was a Captain, there was some sort of incident that made a stir with the enlisted. --We dismissed it, mostly, though. The men do so love their outlandish stories and their gossip.”

Joseph absorbs this. It is slightly reassuring to know that he was not somehow unreasonably obtuse when he first came upon Will conversing with Tom back in November. If Father didn’t know for certain -- even as a Captain -- then it certainly was not within Joseph’s responsibility to know as a Lieutenant. 

“I think you can guess why I mention it, then,” Joseph says, and is surprised to recognise the heaviness of his tone. “--It is true, yes.”

Father makes a rueful sound and joins him in drinking his brandy straight down. Joseph pours him another. 

“So -- this Schofield, then, is . . .”

“Yes. Schofield is the deadman for the Devons,” Joseph says. This is not going nearly as badly as he thought to expect, but he should still tread cautiously -- “which is, of course, why this is relying on your discretion . . .”

The look his father gives him this time is something that is less insulted and significantly more thoughtful. “He is truly a friend to you, then?” Father observes shrewdly.

“Yes,” Joseph says. He thinks of how Will took over tasks like taking care of Joseph’s tunic and all the times he covers for Joseph when Tom startles him into some reaction. He thinks, too, on how Will came into the dugout not three weeks ago, as white and stiffly fearful as Joseph had ever seen, asking after Tom first; he and Joseph had the same priorities. Perhaps most telling of all: the seriousness with which Will had tried to dissuade Joseph from coming to the graveyard in Saint-Omer in those early days of December -- even though it was to the point where that must have seemed the only option to earn Joseph’s trust again. Will risked losing Joseph’s regard just because he didn’t want Joseph to have to manage that particular additional burden. 

Joseph has to clear his throat before he can speak again; there seems to be something in it. “When I wrote the letter, there had been . . . a misunderstanding,” he explains slowly. “I . . . came across him as he was performing his duty in that capacity.”

“His duty being . . . ?” his father prompts. At Joseph’s startled look, Father adds with some asperity, “I know rumors, Joseph, not the particulars.”

“Ah,” Joseph says, backtracking. This is a little easier -- those weeks of practice and discussion mean the words come swiftly to mind. “The deadman’s duty is to ensure that the spirits of the men -- their ghosts, according to Will -- are brought back home. Or shepherded onward, at least. So when I came across him, talking to -- what appeared to me as thin air -- ” he fumbles for the words and winds up shrugging a little. He thinks of how to phrase it.

Because Joseph also remembers the stark fear on Will’s face in Passchendaele when he thought Joseph would report him, and the lifeless dread that had haunted Will after. The recklessness with which he had taken part in the action -- the way he had seemed so shocked at having survived . . . Joseph feels a shiver ripple through him. It is the darkest side of war, that despair that drives all desire to live from one’s mind. And no matter that Will has forgiven him -- Joseph feels awful about having put Will in such a position as to have to struggle with it.

“This had happened to him before,” he settles on saying, doing his best to keep his tone formal. “He was transferred from his original unit back to the front -- his Sergeant at the time thought it was a sign of cowardice.”

“That is an unusual solution,” Father says neutrally. Joseph can read that he is -- well, somewhat appalled, even as his father certainly recognises the strain Will’s sergeant must have been under. 

Joseph flexes his fingers, testing his grip on the cup. It is also cut-glass, and nicely heavy, though it does not quite fit comfortably in his hand. “The officer who explained the position to Schofield -- Major Hepburn -- indicated that it was likely the Sergeant had no knowledge of the -- role. Being a closely-kept secret, and all.” 

“Ah,” his father says absently. He appears to be lost in thought. 

The fire crackles in the small fireplace in the silence that follows. Father insisted on taking this room as his study because of the old-fashioned fireplace, Joseph remembers as the quiet stretches out. The wood seems to ripple as he looks at it, glittering finely all along the cracks of the bark and the wood grain. Joseph wonders what it reminds his father of.

“So his transfer was not just as a reward, then,” Father says abruptly.

Joseph realises he is falling asleep, half-hypnotized by the glowing coals. He rubs his eyes and sits straighter. “No,” he says. “The Major noticed he was responding to T--” and then he realises what he is saying and swiftly amends it “--to a ghost.” 

“This was when he delivered his message?” Father asks softly. He is watching Joseph closely now, and Joseph thinks his father has put it all together -- why Schofield wrote the letter to his parents and why Major Hepburn noted a connection to Joseph Blake; why Joseph should have a falling-out with Schofield upon learning about Schofield’s true position.

“Yes,” Joseph answers quietly. He looks down at his drink because it is better than meeting the pity in that too-knowing gaze. It is best if his father believes that Joseph feels indebted for a service long-since rendered.

There is a fine tremor in his hand where he has the glass squeezed tightly in his grip. 

“Go on, Joseph, finish your drink,” his father says after a moment. His tone is a little sharp. The rasping breath he draws in shakily before continuing tells Joseph why. “I see you’re tired. You’d best get some rest.”

Joseph does as he is told. It isn’t actually that late, but weariness presses in on him anyway. There are some things a man should not see -- his father mourning alone is one of them. Joseph leaves his father to his fire.

~ * ~

_February 4th, 1918 -- Halifax, England_

On Joseph’s second full day home -- the third evening, to be precise -- there is a ball. There isn’t any real reason to celebrate, it being early February -- there are no holidays in the near future -- but it’s no longer January, which means that a whole month has passed since the Christmas season. If only Joseph could escape the interminable _dances._

He feels awful about the whole thing. He knows Mother is discomfited, sending the acceptance of their family invitation three weeks ago and yet needing to add to it unexpectedly but six days past, when Joseph was able to send a telegram about his return home; probably the hostess will have sharp words for her in private. But he did not ask to attend and honestly rather hoped Mother would take Father and leave Joseph to his own devices at home. He supposes he underestimated her priorities.

So now he is here, at another dismal affair. There is hardly anyone his age attending. Bertie was not invited -- his mother and the hostess haven’t gotten along for years -- and everyone else Joseph knows is either at the Front or dead. It’s a depressing thought, really. 

Briefly, Joseph wonders how things might have been livened up had Tom ever really been old enough to participate in half the activities. Honestly, Joseph himself really isn’t accustomed to participating so fully -- he had only just begun attending these sorts of affairs when the war broke out.

\--But were Tom here, Joseph would have a brother. He shoves that thought aside. Even someone else in a uniform would be a welcome distraction. Joseph has never been so aware of the dearth of men in the country as he has been now, hardly given time to rest before another girl demurely claims he is on her dancing card.

Waltz. Polka. Quadrille. And so on. He hardly notes the names or faces of the girls who claim him. He wishes he were not such an outsider and that he could be invited to the more cloistered meetings of fellow gentlemen, but so much time away from home has left him without such comforting connections.

Father does claim his attention in one or two conversations, but it’s not anything worth writing home for. Joseph _is_ home, after all. 

At some point, he escapes. Truthfully he doesn’t recall the last hour of pantomime; what wakes him is the frigid kiss of the outside air when Joseph breaks free from the heated interior of the dance hall. He hopes no one noticed his exit -- it feels like he is thinking clearly for the first time in the whole evening. 

The Loxley estate is lovely, as always. It looks a little different, sheened in silvery ice -- sludge, really. But who’s to tell? In this moonlight, it could be anything.

Joseph stands at the lovingly-crafted stone rail, breathing heavily. He is in his uniform, but he has none of his appropriate weaponry: no rifle, a knife that is only useful for show, and a pistol that can’t hit anything even if it were loaded. It feels wrong. He digs his fingers into the stone and tries to remind himself that he is back in England.

“For what it’s worth,” someone calls, bleakly, “I can’t stand it either.”

If Joseph were Archibald the cat, he would have jumped six feet straight in the air and landed spitting. As it is, he likes to think he makes a credible about-face in the direction of the speaker.

“Sorry, madam,” Joseph replies. He can’t see her, though by the register it can’t be anyone but a woman; he just stands at attention facing where he thinks it is coming from. “I beg your pardon; I didn’t mean to disrupt --”

“Oh, hush,” she says, and he sees her at last: she has been hiding in the lee of the doorway, wrapped in little more than a dark shawl. As he watches, she detaches herself from the building and makes her way to the balustrade, where he stands. He is surprised to note that she is dressed all in mourning. Hardly what one wears to these affairs, but it has its benefits: he hadn’t even noticed her until she changed her position.

“My apologies,” Joseph says, stilted. He wishes he had a drink. He’s been avoiding close conversation all evening; why should he want it now? Not to mention -- no matter her age, such a private conversation between a lone man and a woman is considered immensely improper. 

“Why?” she asks.

This throws him off terribly. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he replies. “I . . . what?”

“Why are you apologising?” she asks. Closer, he still really can’t tell anything about her -- she seems young, given how her eyelashes sweep down atop rounded cheeks -- but when it is dark like this, such impressions mean nothing. “Surely you don’t mean to take on all of my burdens.” 

“I don’t. It’s just polite.”

“Hmph.” She falls silent and looks out over the grounds.

Joseph really shouldn’t be out here with her. She is a widow, probably, given the mourning; she still has a reputation to keep. Moreover, it would not reflect well on Joseph’s manners were they to be discovered outside like this. But the prospect of going back into the hall . . . His breath starts to come short again at the thought of it, and he decides that returning is clearly not an option, regardless of the impropriety.

“I should -- go,” he says. He gestures to the side of the terrace where it continues along the exterior of the building and wraps the corner -- he won’t go back into the hall, but he should at least grant her enough space that they can preserve their respectability.

“I don’t think you should,” she says. “You looked like you were about to jump out of your skin just a moment ago; I’m not certain I should leave you alone.”

\--Which goes _quite_ against the grain of literally all of the social etiquette Mother and Father have drilled into him. Joseph sputters, trying to come up with an appropriate answer to that.

“Nevertheless, I agree it might be best not to be in full view of whomever next makes their escape,” she says thoughtfully, and turns in the direction he indicated. “Perhaps a walk, then?” 

It is horribly confusing at the moment. Joseph _really shouldn’t,_ and Mother and Father would _absolutely_ have his head for this. But by the same token -- his heart, apparently, wants nothing more than to get out of sight of the doorway. It’s kicked up again at the mention of someone leaving the hall. 

“Well, I’m going,” she says after a moment when he doesn’t answer, and starts walking. “Thank you for the idea, darling.”

Joseph does not know why he follows. But after a moment of watching her walk away, he finds his feet start up after her, anyway. 

And since they’re throwing all propriety to the winds --

“Why?” he asks when he catches up to her. It doesn't take long; she has a shorter stride. 

She doesn’t seem the least bit surprised to find him there. “Why what?”

“You mentioned you couldn’t stand it. Why?”

They make it to the edge of the terrace, where it wraps around the side of the building, and stop to survey their options. A smaller staircase, no less ornate, ends on a path that Joseph thinks leads through the gardens. The terrace continues to the back dining room, also awash with light. Joseph can almost hear the sounds of chatter and clinking glass from the party. 

“I used to love all the bustle of the ball, the drama of it,” she says wistfully. It pulls his attention away from the shadows in the window. In the half-light from the dining room, Joseph can see her better now -- she is not precisely young, but she is definitely not old, either. Fine lines -- recent, if he is any judge -- bracket her mouth as it twists into a rueful half-smile. “I suppose that’s my mother’s influence. But -- well, it all seems a bit pointless now.”

Most audaciously she lifts her hand and skims a gloved fingertip lightly down his uniform sleeve, pausing briefly over the double stars of his Lieutenancy. “But I suspect you know all about that,” she adds, quietly, while Joseph is still startled by her forwardness. 

Her words drive such thoughts out of his head with how they nearly flatten him, however and Joseph finds himself quite breathless from the sudden sorrow they provoke. Why on earth is he feeling everything so? It seems that the slightest word is enough to set him off these days. He swallows hard and looks away. 

This seems to remind her precisely of the circumstances and she jerks her hand back. “It seems it is my turn to apologise,” she says hastily. “I have the regrettable tendency to forget that there are others around me.” 

Joseph brings himself under control sharply. This may not be respectable in the slightest, but it would be cruel -- and rather crass -- to let everything spill out needlessly. At the very least -- it seems she needs company as little as he does at the moment, but she is the most interesting person he’s met all evening, and . . . it’s better than being in the dancing hall. 

“You are not wrong,” he says. And then, in an oblique invitation: “If I recall correctly, the gardens are lovely -- not necessarily at this time of the year, but nice to wander through normally.”

“Normality is so passé,” she says, accepting his suggestion. They start down the stone steps and onto the garden path.

“I take it your husband was in the war?” he enquires politely after some time amongst the skeletal bushes.

“Yes. A Captain -- in the 1st London. He was --” she falters before carrying it through “-- killed at the Somme, year before last.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“As was I,” she says, with all of the bitterness he wishes he weren’t constrained by politeness’ sake to repress. “He did not even leave me a child.”

It lands like a blow. There were many men who were killed before they could leave something lasting behind. It makes him think of Tom. “Many do not,” Joseph says tightly.

She pauses. Joseph takes the opportunity and wrestles himself back to within the bounds of polite conversational mien; they stride thrice before she speaks again. “How callous of me,” says she, with remorse. “I forgot about your brother -- I am sorry.” 

It is very, very hard to keep calm. “You know about Tom?”

There is another pause. “I asked about the guests, of course,” she says eventually, sounding apologetic. “Your name -- you are Joseph Blake, are you not? -- your name came up in conjunction with your brother’s. I was sorry to hear about your loss.”

The platitude does not sound so trite with the way she says it; Joseph feels his temper cooling as swiftly as it was aroused. She sounds as though she has grief enough for them both, at the moment, and it lends him greater understanding. 

Well -- in for a penny, in for a pound. “You have me at a disadvantage, then,” he says. “May I ask your name?”

“No,” she says with the peculiar flippancy that tells him she is struggling with some deep emotion. “But you can wait and I may tell it to you yet.”

Joseph can’t help but laugh at that; it is a nice change from the girls tripping over their skirts to claim his hand for a dance. Perhaps there is something to this sort of impropriety if it elicits such reactions!

He relaxes further as they walk. The gardens spread out around them, all carefully-trimmed hedgerows and precisely-planted flowerbeds. Only the hedgerows have anything to them this late in the year. Even in this light, where everything seems hauntingly ethereal, it is lovely; Joseph idly finds himself contemplating the necessary work to add something similar to his parents’ home. He doesn’t know where it would fit between the orchard and the kennels, but it would make for a nice diversion when the mood to wander came upon him.

“I beg your pardon,” he says later, when he has managed to soak in enough of the night’s calm to (mostly) offset the frustrations of the evening, “but I don’t recognise you at all. What brings you to Halifax?”

“I am visiting my friend -- do you know Miss Helen Waterford? My parents wished me to come to -- take my mind off of things.”

“How have you found it?” Joseph asks.

“Well enough. Quiet,” she adds. “Normally I’m in Leeds. Visiting Halifax is a bit like visiting the country.” 

“Leeds? Yes, I suppose it must seem so,” Joseph says. “I believe I’ve passed through Leeds once or twice, coming home by rail; it always seems very busy.”

“There’s a great deal more bustle these days,” she agrees. “We’ve several munitions factories there and it is quite the business these days.”

The taste in Joseph’s mouth sours at the reminder of the war. Come to Halifax to take her mind off of things, indeed. “And has it worked, then?” he asks. It must be bitter to her ears, for she seems to turn sharply towards him. “Have you been able to forget?”

She stops walking. Joseph pauses a pace ahead of her and looks back; she is studying him. Detached, he notes the way her shoulders seem slumped compared to proper military attention though her back is as straight and stiff as anything; he thinks she does not look like a person who has forgotten anything -- rather, as someone who remembers it constantly and must keep pushing forward through it. 

“No,” she says, after a pause.

Joseph nods shortly. “Neither have I.”

In unspoken agreement, they resume down the path. Joseph feels he can breathe easier at last. Neither of them attempt more conversation -- there is no need for it. 

They meander around a small pond and into what would be banks of roses. By some sort of tree -- hard to tell what kind in the dark, though it is certainly not a willow -- Joseph shivers, a little, as the chill begins to make itself known. His uniform is wool and his shirt is flannel, but it was somehow just a bit warmer in Belgium than it was here. And he left his overcoat in the house.

“Are you all right?” he asks finally, breaking the silence. “It is awfully cold out here, and you’ve only your wrapping.”

“I will be able to complete a turn about the garden, thank you,” she answers a moment later. “After that, though -- I think I may need to return, yes.”

They complete the circuit in companionable quiet. Joseph resolves to wait outside for some time to give the illusion of a separate arrival; someone must have noticed the absence of at least one of them. Perhaps he can re-enter through the dining room, which also opened onto the terrace if he recalled correctly --

“You go in first,” she says, interrupting his thoughts as they approach the steps they went down earlier. “I’ll wait outside. I fear you are the more visible of the two of us -- I’m not in the least bit interesting, and I doubt anyone’s missed me yet.”

He makes some token protest about her being left out in the cold, but she is firm on this matter. Joseph doesn’t argue too long -- it is depressingly likely that she is correct on the count of him being the more visible of the two given how distressingly eye-catching uniforms are these days. And -- it is possible that she is also correct about whose presence is most missed by the company inside. He feels a little ill at having to go back in once he remembers that.

Perhaps he can insist on returning home; even alone, if necessary. Or just get another drink. Joseph squares his shoulders -- he’ll figure it out inside. 

First, though, he turns back to his companion. “You’ve been the best company I’ve had all night,” Joseph says to her honestly. “And I still do not know your name, Mrs . . .?”

“Mrs Spencer,” she says. “Sophia Spencer.”

“Thank you, Mrs Spencer,” he says, and means it sincerely.

“Go on in, then,” she says, not without some amusement. “And enjoy the rest of the party, Lieutenant Blake.”

Not bloody likely, he thinks, and reenters the dancing hall.

Joseph manages to evade invitations to dance from another three girls over the next half an hour, but it is true that the ball is winding down, and he finds it easier to manage knowing that it will be over soon. He does not see Mrs Spencer reappear; but perhaps it is for the better. They wouldn’t be able to be nearly so candid in this gathering, anyway. 

~ * ~

_February 5th, 1918 -- Halifax, England_

Joseph happens to be in the parlour around noon the next day. Not precisely noon -- more like a quarter ‘til -- but close enough to lunch that he is wondering what he can pester the cook for. There’s nothing fresh in terms of vegetables, of course, but perhaps she has some pasties set aside? 

And Joseph is _starving._ Maybe it’s something to do with how he’s not been sleeping well, here at home, that increases his appetite -- or maybe it’s just that the food is halfway decent, who knows. Thus decided, Joseph further resolves to go directly to the cook himself instead of asking Minnie, as ringing for her would undoubtedly draw attention. If Mother or Father took notice, Joseph would probably have to eat with them -- and he’s sure to have his fill of _that_ at supper. 

Upon reaching the kitchen, he hears a familiar voice: that of his mother. 

Joseph loves his mother, he really does. She is lively and sociable and far more hospitable than their -- his -- father, and that is quite the boon when thrown to the wayward winds of society. However, she is often the one _bringing_ society upon them, and -- Joseph thinks about last night’s ball; while he could make the argument that her insistence on attending it _did_ lead to at least one pleasant conversation, he highly doubts Mother intended him to meet Mrs Spencer. And he’s already heard Mother mention another ball later this week . . .

“Here you are, Mrs Blake,” he hears the cook say through the door. “Some nice scotch eggs and sandwiches.”

“Thank you, Mrs Tatlow,” says his mother. “I absolutely appreciate it. I’ll have everything back in an hour or so.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am,” says the cook.

Joseph’s interest is piqued. He’s never heard Mother thank a servant before -- certainly not in so casual a fashion.

When Mother does _not_ come back through the exit into the rest of the house, he surmises she went outside. He ducks back towards the parlour, which has a nice view of the little garden they have; it also has the closest view of where the kitchen lets out. It is with some surprise that, upon reaching the room and peering out the window, Joseph sees his mother head from the house with a large basket over one arm to the cherry orchard.

In this weather? Even if it wasn’t the middle of winter, it is not a particularly nice day today.

“Joseph? What on earth are you doing?”

Joseph almost jumps out of his _skin._ It’s only Father, though, looking at him quizzically. The bemusement turns to concern as Joseph clutches the back of a chair and breathes heavily. 

“Fine -- I’m fine,” Joseph says, waving off Father. “I beg your pardon. I just heard Mother in the kitchen and I was wondering what she was up to.”

His father looks out the window and then back at Joseph. Something in his expression softens, a little. “Ah,” Father says in reply. “She’s having lunch.”

“Lunch,” Joseph repeats. 

Father looks him over. “Yes,” he says. “Which -- if you were making for the kitchen -- I assume means you were also in search of. Would you care to join me?”

Inwardly, Joseph sighs. But -- it is not so bad, eating with just Father, he supposes. “Certainly,” he says. “Where would you like to take it?”

They settle on eating in the parlour and, shortly, a suitable meal is produced. Father disdains the formality of the family setting and requests sandwiches, similar to Mother’s picnic fare, with some other things laid out for them to serve for themselves. It’s a plain spread, but not an unwelcome one; Joe often finds the meals of home overly rich after the limited fare he has been eating at the Front. 

“So,” his father says casually, after they have both eaten their fill and Joseph is starting to think about finding a book in the library. “I could not help but notice that you disappeared for some time last night.”

Joseph fidgets, a little. He knew something like this would come up, so he is at least a little prepared. “I grew tired of dancing,” he replies.

“I can imagine,” Father says dryly. “You seemed to be a sought-after partner.” 

That part of the evening is not something Joseph wishes to recall. “I feel as though there are more of them every time I come home,” he says instead, meaning the numbers of eligible young women vying for his attention. “It is -- it is a very big change from the conditions at the Front. I find I am unaccustomed to managing it.”

“You attended some events at the end of your last leave,” Father points out, reasonably. It sets Joseph’s teeth on edge. “Surely things have not changed so greatly in three months to have made you lose all your stamina.”

“When I was last on leave, Mother permitted me to rest in between dances given I was still recovering from being shot in the leg.”

Father raises his eyebrows. Joseph reassesses his tone and realises it was a tad too sharp. He drums his fingers on the armrest and makes the conscious effort to relax. “And perhaps I find it tiresome, talking about nothing,” he adds finally. 

Father looks at him thoughtfully. Joseph would hate how easily his father is able to read him if it weren’t for how Joseph is (he is startled to realise) coming to depend on it. By parsing Father’s reactions, Joseph is able to determine how much Joseph has changed -- and how welcome those changes might be. And at least then Joseph has some idea of his own mind. Here in England, he thinks he’s starting to lose it entirely.

“There is talk of the war no matter where you go,” Father says eventually. “But I take it you mean that none speak of it in such a way as you are accustomed.”

Joseph looks at the empty plate in front of him. “Did you, when you came back?” he asks. “Were there others who knew what you meant when you talked of what you’d seen?”

Father sighs. 

“If you’ve ever found such a person outside of a gentleman’s club with other officers in it, let me know,” he says. “Goodness knows, I never have.”

Joseph thinks on Father’s words after they break from lunch. It is astounding how they catch and hold his attention -- or perhaps it is just that there seems to be a great weight, suddenly, to Joseph’s actions. He is aware that before him is a choice. What is most unusual is the urgency by which he is seized at the thought of it, for he is leaving on February 9th; he hasn’t long to make his decision.

Well -- what has he got to lose?

Within an hour he sends a politely-worded request to Mrs Sophia Spencer, in the care of Miss Helen Waterford. Although the footman is off fighting somewhere in France, the groundskeeper doesn’t mind taking up the errand, and is shortly dispatched. 

Joseph cannot begin to hope for a reply before tomorrow at the earliest, if one comes at all. Time is increasingly short, he finds. --Which is why he is startled when the groundskeeper returns with a response, neatly penned even in haste: he is free to call tomorrow morning if he so desires. 

~ * ~

_February 6th, 1918 -- Steenvoorde, France_

Tom has always worn his heart on his sleeve in a lot of ways, he supposes; he never felt the need to hide how he felt at any given time, and never had much reason to want to keep things hidden in the first place. Being in the army did teach him, a little, about when and where it was appropriate to express oneself -- okay, more than a little, you didn’t want your Sergeant screaming at you from day in to day out -- but still.

Perhaps, in some ways, he thought Will was similar. Will doesn’t express much, but Tom has learnt how to read him very well at this point; he thought Will just didn’t feel like showing much. And maybe that’s not entirely wrong, but.

Reading the letters -- reading the letters, Tom _gets it._ Will doesn’t keep to himself because he’s uncaring, he keeps to himself because bloody hell -- he doesn’t do anything _but_ care. 

It takes him several days to work through the ones in Will’s tin. Tom thought he would breeze through them, but it did not turn out like that at all. This is -- Tom has never met Will’s wife but he feels like he knows her, now, almost uncomfortably intimately. Will was right about there not being much to scandalise Tom, but Tom thinks Will forgot that Tom is not, er, reading the letters in the same way.

To Tom, it’s obvious what Ellie was feeling as she wrote these. Maybe it is how he’s able to sort of . . . inhabit each letter, but Tom is acutely aware of how deeply the pen was pressed to the paper in the writing of it; he can tell where tears fell, even under the later stains of being scattered across a muddy floor; he swears he can even sense how she must have pressed each letter to her lips, an invisible kiss. It’s . . . honestly, it’s a little disturbing. She isn’t _his_ wife, after all.

\--But she is Will’s wife, and that means something, too. It’s for Will that he reads these, after all. 

By the time he’s finished with them, he isn’t ready to start on the next batch. It’d be too much. 

“You’ve got a hell of a wife,” he tells Will the morning after finishing the last one (the one written at the end of April) when Will is early to the Sergeants’ mess and eating alone. Tom isn’t sure what sort of tone he manages to say it in; some unholy combination of amazement, admiration and fear, probably.

Will looks like he slept about as well as Tom -- which is to say, not very much. Tom noticed he was reading at least one of the later letters before bed, but hadn’t given it much thought at the time. But that makes sense, too. If it’s hard for _Tom_ to read, what it must be like for Will --

\-- of course. Tom could kick himself. _That’s_ why Will wanted Tom to read the letters with him -- because then he wouldn’t have to manage the emotion of it all alone. 

“Hmm? Yeah.” Will’s voice brings Tom back out of his thoughts. His friend’s expression clears a little and he cracks a smile. “Is this about how she writes about Andrew?”

Tom files away his thoughts about Will’s motivations for later reflection and snorts. He knows all about dealing with brothers. “Oh, sure,” he says. “And everything else.”

“How far have you read?” Will asks. 

“I’m finished with these,” Tom admits reluctantly. “But -- give me a day before you let me at the new ones.”

Tom senses the mood shift before Will opens his mouth. “That’s alright,” Will says, deceptively casual. He almost manages to hide his sudden fear. “I haven’t finished reading them yet, myself.”

“No -- no!” Tom warns him. “Don’t you even start thinking I’m giving up. I just -- look, it’s a lot, alright? I --” hmm, how to explain? He tries: “Don’t forget _how_ I’m reading these, yeah? I’m getting -- I’m getting a lot of --” Tom loses the words he was half-thinking off and waves his hands in frustration. “Argh, I can’t explain it. But I’m _going to finish them,_ okay?” 

Will shifts uncomfortably. He is probably picking up on Tom’s uncertainty and reading it completely the wrong way, Tom thinks.

“Just keep eating,” Tom tells his friend, exasperated. But it’s for a good cause. Will rarely asks for anything, let alone something this personal; Tom will do the best he can. He tries to turn the conversation somewhere more positive. “I tell you, it sounds like Calpurnia is going to be a right terror when she’s older.”

Will chokes on his next bite. “She certainly was when I was there,” he coughs out when he clears his throat enough. He smiles faintly at the memory.

Tom congratulates himself. “What was she like while you were at home?” he asks. 

Will answers, a little hesitant at first. But he tells Tom about how Calpurnia helped his father around and kept him entertained; how she managed to find a spider, even in the middle of winter, and released it onto the dinner table; how by the end of his leave, she was as comfortable sitting in Will’s lap as in her mother’s, no longer seeing him as strange . . . 

The rest of the day is filled with training that consists of blowing up parts of the landscape around the town environs and practicing fortifying the craters left behind, but Will doesn’t falter the rest of the day and keeps the men going with something approaching an unusual cheer. This tells Tom that the time they took talking over breakfast was time well-spent; he hopes Will sees that, too. It is dangerous to forget what one is out here for, after all.

~ * ~

_February 6th, 1918 -- Halifax, England_

At precisely 10 o’clock, Joseph goes to call on Mrs Spencer at the home of the Waterfords. It is a house of comparable size to the Blakes’, two miles down the road. Their footman has somehow managed to avoid conscription, Joseph sees when the man opens the door for him; then revises his estimate. The livery the footman wears is over-large and made for someone to grow into and his face is spotty and smooth. This boy can’t be more than 16. 

The boy goes to announce his arrival. He returns and ushers Joseph into the sitting room.

Mrs Spencer is seated there. In the daylight, Joseph sees that she is indeed still young; she cannot be more than 23. Her hair is very dark, as are her eyes, and she has a cleverness about her expression that she seems to take great pains to cover with the expected social smile. There is a melancholy that haunts her as well. Joseph would say it is attractive, but truthfully, he just thinks he understands it more readily than the simpering simplicity of the young girls who have hunted him across ballrooms in evenings prior. 

With her are Miss Helen Waterford and Mrs Marianna Waterford, both seated on the couch. Joseph knows almost nothing of Miss Waterford, and Mrs Waterford is clearly suspicious, so he greets them all with what he knows is his most charming smile and engages in all the expected pleasantries. In very little time, Miss Waterford is taking care to direct all her glances towards him from beneath her eyelashes, and Mrs Waterford is pleased with his ability to keep the conversation going.

Mrs Spencer contributes exactly as much as is expected and very little more. Joseph thinks he sees the gleam of humor at some point, but there is -- of course -- no real opportunity to speak with her, personally. It would be most unseemly. 

Nevertheless, she manages to make her opinions clear. On the subject of local entertainments that are forthcoming -- Joseph hasn’t the slightest idea why either Miss or Mrs Waterford feel this is a subject he would know or care a whit about -- Mrs Spencer shifts the conversation briefly. “What are the sorts of entertainment on the line?” she asks. “Were I -- forgive my moment of fancy -- were I to enlist tomorrow, what sort of pastimes could I expect on the Front?”

“Boredom, mostly,” Joseph answers without thinking, and is rewarded with a genuine smile before she demurs. Quickly, he adds to it for the Waterfords’ benefit. “But -- there is of course more to it than that. Why, one of the Captains in our Battalion organised a football tournament between the platoons, first, and then the companies. It was quite the spectacle.” 

“How did your platoon fare?” Mrs Spencer asks, prompting him when Joseph would finish.

“Very well,” says Joseph. “Were I there for the organisation of it, I should be quite proud that they nearly took the title of best in the Battalion; it was a close-fought match between my men and some of the Captain -- the one who organised it -- some of his men.” And then he is of course obliged to recount the whole of it by Miss Waterford (who seems distressingly taken with the romantic idea of such unthinking joys in the face of tragedy), which he does.

The call comes to an end, of course. It is nearly lunch, to which he has neither been invited nor to which he expects an invitation. He bids them all a good day.

As he waits for the footman to bring the motor car around for him, Joseph happens to look back. Upstairs he catches a brief glimpse of Mrs Spencer standing at a window. She watches him watching her with a thoughtful expression and -- he is almost certain -- something like interest. 

Joseph returns home. At least now they have the full measure of each other -- both privately and publicly. 

~ * ~

_February 7th, 1918 -- Halifax, England_

Joseph realised his mother had taken to disappearing from the house without a goodbye and often did not return for hours as early into his leave as his second day at home. Had he not been preoccupied with avoiding her at the time after apologising for his unmannerly behavior, Joseph would have found it more alarming. Rose Blake, for all her social engagements, simply does not vanish unannounced, nor does she leave her home without a proper escort. And -- well, there was that one day where Mother took a basket of food to the orchard but -- surely she isn’t doing that every day?

Curiosity piqued, and finally finding himself with time to spare, Joseph decides to investigate. He will go straight to the source: Mother should be around, still, since it is only just past 11. And if she deflects or refuses -- well, as it stands, he should probably approach her about her opinion on Mrs Spencer, as discreetly as possible. He can manage to be discreet, he thinks, leaving his rooms. Though he does not necessarily want to raise his mother’s expectations unnecessarily, Joseph really does not know very much about Mrs Spencer when all is said and done, and Mother would know more than Father.

But Mother is nowhere to be found. Joseph finds both her study and the parlour empty. She isn’t discussing anything with any of the staff. She cannot drive, so she would not have taken the car into town -- and to the best of his knowledge, no one has come by to visit or to pick her up, either. Puzzled, Joseph seeks out his father instead.

His father is in his private study, and appears to be engaged in reviewing some correspondence. Probably about the investments they have in Uncle Jonathan’s mill; Joseph recognises the color of the ribbon as being the one Father tends to use when keeping track of what correspondence relates to which kind of business. He looks up, blinking a little at Joseph’s sudden appearance.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Joseph says, in lieu of a more appropriate greeting, “but have you seen Mother at all?”

“Hmm? No, I haven’t,” Father says. He squints across the room to the clock on one of his bookshelves. “Half past eleven, is it? I expect she’ll be having lunch, won’t she?”

“She’s not in the house,” Joseph says.

“Then she’ll be in the garden.”

“Every day?” Joseph asks in astonishment. “She eats outside every day?”

Father looks at him curiously, and only now seems to notice how concerned Joseph is about this. He frowns. “Has it been every day?”

Joseph stares at him, aghast. “Father, it’s _February.”_

Father looks towards the door. His expression is -- Joseph is having a hard time placing it, but then he realises that his father has the distinct look of someone who is both a little impatient and a little lost.

Father being unaware of this business leaves Joseph with a sour taste in his mouth. Father is the head of the household, and though Mother is, of course, a force of her own, Joseph has never known Father to be oblivious to her designs. His seeming lack of concern now at her behaviour, which is so wildly out of character, leaves Joseph bewildered.

“I hadn’t realised it was every day,” Father says slowly, grudgingly. “I thought she was eating with you, or --” He stops, pressing his lips into a thin line. 

Joseph has a feeling that this is a much darker matter than he perhaps wants to inquire about. But -- “Why is she eating in the garden?” he asks anyway, dreading the answer.

“Well, to be with Tom, of course,” his father says, as though this was obvious. “She started it after the service we had in the orchard -- you remember it, don’t you?”

“Of course I remember that service,” Joseph says. His voice sounds odd even to his own ears.

His father eyes him up and down, reading something in him that Joseph can’t quite discern. “You should go join her, today,” his father tells him abruptly, tone decidedly turning the statement into something that is _not_ a request. “Go talk to the cook -- she can make something up for you. I know she’s often got some things on hand.”

Joseph opens his mouth, can’t think of what to say, and closes it. He leaves instead. He starts down the hall, only to pause mid-stride not ten feet from the study. 

For a moment -- for a very long moment -- Joseph is tempted not to go. He has no idea what to expect, save for a strong feeling it will be the worst -- not that he knows what the worst is, but something is very wrong. And he suspects that whatever he will discover, it will be something that is -- if even Father won’t participate in it -- intensely personal. Joseph wonders if this is something he should even begin to pry into; one’s parents’ affairs are generally considered outside of one’s business. 

This, however, begs the question of why Father wants him to join Mother in the first place. 

Troubled, Joseph makes his way to the kitchen. The cook is very surprised to see him, and seems rather uncomfortable at being approached so directly, but Joseph isn’t really in the mood to track down one of the maids to pass on his request. Within short order, a small hamper is produced, and Joseph is on his way. 

Joseph would like to say he goes out there of his own volition, but the uncertainty that dogs his heels the entire way makes it seem awfully as though he’s only doing this with the blind determination of following an order. In any case -- in any case, he is through the gate already, amongst the bare trunks of the cherry trees.

On the other side, he doesn’t see his mother. He has to stop just inside the gate and look around before he spots her: she’s in the corner where Tom’s --

Joseph is derailed by the discordancy of thought provoked by seeing the nice marble headstone Mother arranged. Joseph remembers the memorial -- the funeral. With the local congregation and the vicar. 

None of them are here now, though, and the memory is -- it’s not easy to shake off, but Joseph remembers how Tom looked before Joseph came home: still a ghost, but infinitely more substantial. Tom isn’t here; Tom is at the Front, with Will. His spirit is safe in Will’s care. That reminder is enough to drive away the malingering presences of something that should have been private, not public.

Still. Now that Joseph looks closer, he sees that Mother has spread a small cloth on the ground and has settled onto it. Myrtle, one of Father’s dogs, is lying next to her -- she’s perked up at the sound of his footsteps, probably, and is looking at Joseph. There is an untouched basket that sits behind both of them: Mother hasn’t started to eat the food the cook packed for her, yet. She is hunched over in a posture that Joseph has never seen her in before, something more along the lines of what he’d see in one of the men at the Front.

As he watches, she touches the headstone, tracing the letters of the inscription. Her shoulders shake briefly. Most unmannerly, Mother wipes her face with the back of her hand; Joseph can hear the sob from here, followed by a deep gasp as Myrtle whines softly. His mother sits up straighter, assuming the perfect poise Joseph best remembers her using, and shakes her head. She then turns to the basket and catches sight of him.

Joseph feels at once that this was a terrible, terrible mistake. She is totally undone, face splotched and tear-stained in a fashion that throws him off entirely. --It’s supposed to be the other way around, isn’t it? A whole lifetime of memories, from coming to her with scraped knees as a child all the way to melting into her arms for comfort with blackened eyes after scraps when he was older passes through his mind; none of them involved her doing the weeping. Joseph has no idea what on earth to do.

Mother’s expression twists from shock to fear. She turns as though to hide it, but stops herself, resolving it instead into some sort of facsimile of her normal polite cheer. 

“Joseph, darling,” she says, starting to wipe at her face again. She aborts the movement halfway through, groping for a handkerchief. “You should be having lunch inside. I thought you were going to be taking it in your bedroom --”

Joseph still doesn’t know what to do, but he does know what it looks like when someone is only barely holding himself together, and that galvanises him. He hurries over, mindful of the slippery ground between the patchy grass beneath the barren trees, and reaches for her before he’s even properly sitting. A hand on her elbow allows him to feel the upset tremble of the slight muscle there reverberate up his palm, and he sets the basket down carelessly and reaches for her shoulder. It is enough. She crumples in towards him in a way that only the youngest of the men do, the ones who survive their first advance under heavy fire or witness their friends die in a bombardment. 

Of all of the Blakes, she was ever the shortest -- shorter even than Tom, who crowed so once he was a hair taller than she. It is easy to wrap his arms around her; her head tucks neatly under his chin. There, she shakes all to pieces. Joseph is reminded of Will when his wife’s letters were nearly ruined: there isn’t any sound to it at all.

“He was my son,” she says at last when her tears subside. Her words sound as though they are dredged up from the very bottom of the ocean. “You were always Jacob’s. But Tom was mine.”

Joseph does not understand her meaning at first. “That isn’t true,” he protests, trying to puzzle it out. 

“Oh yes it is,” Mother says. “You are always so responsible, so dutiful. You never do anything for yourself because there are so many expectations of you.”

And -- then, suddenly, he does see it. Joseph did do his best to meet his parents’ expectations. He always thought they were Mother’s as well as his father’s -- he isn’t sure why that would make him Father’s more than Mother’s . . . but now that he thinks about it, Joseph recalls dozens of times where Tom got up to something he shouldn’t have, things Joseph never dared to do for fear of disappointing their parents. Things that Joseph resented when he was younger, for how Tom rarely faced more than a scolding when he was caught. 

His mother doesn’t wait for him to acknowledge it before she goes on. “Tom could do everything you and I couldn’t, you see. And I so wanted him to do everything he wanted. Oh,” she says then, raggedly, “oh, Joseph -- I killed him, don’t you see? I killed him and I can’t bear it.” 

His grip tightens before he can help himself -- Joseph eases it, fearful of crushing her. His mother feels so frail. “No, you did not,” he tells her, honestly bewildered. He can’t possibly imagine why she should think such a thing. “What on earth makes you think that?” 

“I was the one who convinced your father to let him enlist,” she tells him miserably. “Don’t you remember? Your father wanted him to study in America, or Canada -- and I said, let him do what he likes. His country needs him.”

The memory is bright in Joseph’s memory. Mostly, what he recalls is Tom’s eager hope -- and how Joseph quietly advocated that Tom be allowed to enlist to Father later when they were in private. Now that he reflects on it, he also remembers Mother, firmly disagreeing with Father’s opinion -- but not nearly enough to be the deciding factor, surely. 

Instead of saying all of that, though, Joseph says, “Father listens to his own counsel.” He speaks gently, intending to soothe. “You know that.”

This is the wrong thing to say. She strikes him. Not hard, and it only hits awkwardly on his shoulder, but it is enough to make him startle; she rears back, scrambling to her feet, tripping over Myrtle and making the dog yelp and skitter away. “Don’t!” she screams at him. “I know who your father listens to -- and since your brother died, it hasn’t been me!”

She glares at him, utterly wild. Joseph is stunned, unable to even begin to articulate a response. Myrtle barks like mad, making an awful racket; Joseph winces and starts to cover his ears out of reflex when the noise abruptly becomes too much before remembering that he isn’t a child and forcing his hands to still. 

At that, Mother seems to recall herself. She stumbles back a step and fetches up against the fence; she looks away. 

“Come, Myrtle,” Joseph says to the dog. She dances anxiously between the two of them for a moment before coming over reluctantly; she calms down when he pats her and feeds her something from the hamper. 

Joseph takes the time to think. He’s certainly had plenty of practice in ordering his thoughts under pressure; he has very little difficulty doing it now. 

Mother isn’t wrong about the -- favouritism -- of her’s and Father’s. Joseph hadn’t ever thought to put it in those terms, but it makes a strange sort of sense. He knows that Mother and Father’s marriage was arranged, though it was something Mother swept under the rug when it was brought up -- Mother was the one with the connections to the peerage; Father was the son of a businessman who felt it worthwhile to purchase a commission for his second child. 

Joseph has benefited from his combined parentage. Much of what he has inherited socially is through Mother. That doesn’t change the fact that his current success -- much of his upbringing -- was centered on Father’s expertise, and what parts of it Joseph succeeded in learning. 

But, Tom -- Tom. It always comes back to Tom. And Joseph knows, he _knows_ that Tom is fine -- Tom is with Will -- Tom is on the Front -- but the shadow of grief from over half a year lingers nevertheless. Mother does not even have the luxury of knowing Tom’s ghost is still with them, and even if she knew, what good would it bring? There was no guarantee that she would ever see Tom again even as a ghost. 

This is it, Joseph thinks, nauseous enough almost to gag with it. This is what William Schofield was afraid of -- this is why he extracted that promise from his wife not to contact him over the past year. How can Joseph justify keeping this knowledge from his mother when she is suffering so terribly?

Once Myrtle (and he, himself) is settled, Joseph folds his hands together in his lap. He ignores the trembling in them and takes a deep breath, focusing on the patterning in the marble of Tom’s headstone. 

“They picked Tom as a messenger because of me. Because I was in the 2nd Devons,” he says, haltingly. Mother doesn’t necessarily know the ins and outs of military politics or the battlefield -- he will have to speak plainly. “He tried to help a German pilot after the man crashed into a barn on the way to the Devons. His companion was getting water at Tom’s behest when the pilot stabbed him.” Joseph has to stop and he swallows; even knowing Tom’s ghost is safely with Will doesn’t make this hurt any less.

“Whether you or I advocated for his enlistment -- whether Father should or should not have listened -- it doesn’t matter,” he says eventually. He breathes in hard and works to keep his voice steady and calm, reasonable: while he’s still not sure if he believes it himself, he must at least give the illusion of it. “We weren’t there -- and Tom made his own choices, in the end.”

Perhaps this will be enough. Joseph shuts his mouth and desperately tries not to think about all the other things he could say -- should say -- _cannot_ say.

When he looks up, Mother is weeping again, bent over the fence. She isn’t capable of saying anything at the moment, clearly. So he gets to his feet and cautiously makes his way over to her. She lets him hold her again, and clings to him a little once he tentatively draws her in. 

Perhaps it was enough. Perhaps knowing that she didn’t share exclusively in the blame for Tom’s death was the tipping point; perhaps it was not. But eventually, once Myrtle has ceased her horrid sustained whining and gone to thoroughly pilfer their lunches, his mother allows him to coax her back to the house, where he arranges for hot food and some tea. 

The hampers they leave behind. Tom isn’t there, but Joseph thinks he’d appreciate the gesture anyway.

~ * ~

_February 8th, 1918 -- Halifax, England_

After tea the next day, Joseph returns to his room. His open bag sits on the luggage rack. He stares at it -- it is almost entirely packed, awaiting only the few essentials he will use in the morning. He wonders where the time has gone.

There is a whisper at the door; Mother comes into his room, unannounced. 

“There’s a letter for you,” she says when he looks to her. She holds it out. 

Joseph takes it. It is a response to the letter he sent thanking Mrs Spencer for permitting him to call on her at such short notice.

“Her mother was an opera singer,” Mother comments, her voice bone dry. “Her father caused _quite_ the scandal when they wed against his parents’ wishes, you know.”

Joseph nods and opens it. Reading Mrs Spencer’s response, he feels his ears flush. He coughs hastily to cover his laugh.

“Favorable?” his mother asks.

“Yes,” Joseph says, still choking a little, but doesn’t offer it to her and pulls it out of range when she starts to reach for it, curious over his strong reaction. He is sure she has seen others far more scandalous in her time, but he knows _he_ only has because he has been in the army. He clears his throat and tries again. “I think she is amenable, yes.”

Mother leaves off trying to get the letter and rests her hand on his elbow. “Then you shan’t be causing a scandal,” she says, and kisses his cheek. 

~ * ~

 _February 12th, 1918 -- Passchendaele, France_

Ugh, this is so boring. Tom is so bored he could die (again). Will and the rest of the platoon are stationed in the second line, set to relieve the 25th in a week. Joe didn’t manage to make it into the train the 2nd Devons were sent to the Front on, back on the 10th; but he might come in today, as he was set to return the 12th and the last trains for the remainder of the 8th Division are coming out today.

Tom, meanwhile, is here in the rear, where the troops are trucked in on an endless stream of lorries from the train depot, waiting for his brother. He supposes that at least Joe isn’t as late as Will was. But there’s an itch in Tom that wants his older brother back with them, anyway. Perhaps it’s just those new rumors about the Germans coming in increasing numbers to the Front.

Ah, well. As Will has said before -- it’s all much the same. More Germans to fight won’t make much of a difference in the end. 

\--a uniform catches his eye; well, a uniform and familiar shoulders. Joe hops off a lorry and swings his bag onto his back, scanning the crowd. He looks as though he’s gained a bit of weight, at the least, and he steps with a fresh energy despite the days of travel he must have completed at this point.

“Joe!” Tom shouts, and waves. Joe spots him and brightens with relief. Tom jogs over to him, ignoring the men he passes through until he can walk next to his brother.

“You got here just in time,” Tom jokes. “I was about to give it up for the day and head back to the 5th, and then where would you be?”

“Locating another officer, who’d be able to tell me as much as you about where to go, but with less commentary,” Joe replies easily. “It’s good to see you. What’ve I missed?”

“Nothing, really,” Tom says automatically, because there hasn’t been any real, big things, anyway. “I guess -- Will got word from Ellie; his father died at home, around the end of January. We got the letter a few days after you left.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Joe says automatically, and then -- “Oh -- oh. How’d he take it?”

Tom shrugs. “To be expected, I suppose,” he says. “But not as bad as he could have.”

Joe hums a little at this. Then -- “Wait, who’s Ellie?” he asks, sounding bemused.

Tom looks at him incredulously. “What do you mean, ‘who’s Ellie?’ She’s his wife,” Tom says.

Joe shoots him a startled glance. “Really? I never knew her name,” he says. 

Tom remembers the letters. He’s read all of them now; it feels odd talking about her when he . . . knows her. “She is something,” he says, and leaves it at that, feeling discomfited by it all. He changes the subject. “But -- how was home? How were Mother and Father, the dogs -- did you have anything good to eat?”

Joe’s expression (that of a disgruntled toad, the face he defaults to when he’s trying to figure out how to get out of answering) and his hesitation to say anything immediately is telling. “It was fine,” he says vaguely, as though he is _not_ talking to his younger brother who knows _very well_ the sorts of faces Joe makes regularly. “Myrtle is doing well.”

Tom’s suspicions are aroused further. Joe never actually liked the dogs Father bred, and he wouldn’t have bothered to learn more about them of his own volition. “What were you doing with Myrtle?” he asks, trying hard to keep his tone from being accusatory. “You spend all your time with that cat of yours, don’t you?”

“What, I can’t know how Father’s dogs are doing?” Joe demands. “I like to think I’m a better son than that!”

“Hardly,” Tom retorts. “I just don’t think you’d go out of your way to spend any time with them. What happened, Joe?”

Joe sighs and casts a look around, though there’s nobody nearby to hear or care. “Fine,” he grouses. “They’re -- Mother and Father, that is, not the dogs -- they’re not doing well. They’re healthy, it’s not that,” he adds hurriedly, forestalling the next thing Tom would have asked. “It’s -- well. Mother isn’t -- hasn’t taken your . . . death --” and Joe has to force himself to say it -- “well.” 

What does that even mean? Argh, older brothers -- they make no sense. “What does _that_ mean?” Tom demands, leading his brother into the line of trenches. 

“It means she’s been spending all her lunches in the cherry orchard next to that headstone she set up for you,” Joe says heavily, taking care to keep his voice low. They’re starting to pass amongst more men. “With bloody Myrtle for company.” 

Tom is aghast. “But it’s February!” he blurts out. 

Joe looks briefly miserable. “I know.”

“And Father just lets her?” Tom demands.

“He didn’t seem to know it in the first place,” Joe says flatly, pausing to let some men heading in the opposite direction pass him.

That . . . that is a lot. “Oh,” Tom says. It’s a lot to take in.

Joe, seeing this, seems . . . remorseful, for some reason. He clears his throat and makes an effort to shift the topic. “Here, though,” he says, sounding less confrontational. “I have some jam for you, you know. And Mother had the cook pack some other things, too. We can share when I find Will, how’s that?”

“Yeah, alright,” Tom says after a moment, accepting the apology. “You’ll have to tell him what went on at home, anyway. Did Mum make you go to any balls?”

Joe groans. “No, I am not telling you about that,” he says firmly, which means that yes, she did. “Leave off, would you?”

“Fair enough,” Tom says easily, and it is; for they have come up to 5th Platoon’s position and already some of the men are shouting greetings to their Lieutenant. Tom stays back, watching as Joe goes to clap their shoulders and repeat hellos to everyone. He can pester his older brother later.

\--And Joe has given him some things to think about, anyway.

“So he’s back, then?” 

It’s Will, murmuring to Tom as he comes up from behind -- he’s coming from the direction of 8th Platoon’s position, so he must have been chatting with Addington. Will sees the expression on Tom’s face and correctly interprets it to be less than optimal. “News from home?” 

Tom waves the stirrings of darker thoughts away. “Yes, but don’t worry about it now,” he says. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

Will understands what Tom means and nods, accepting it; and he goes to greet Joe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be posted a week after the fact, but -- Happy Mother’s Day, Mrs Blake.
> 
> Pavuvu, as always, is a most wondrous muse; believe me when I say that this chapter would not be what it was without her!!! (Still blown away by your idea to have the letters get knocked into the mud. Darling <3 Your wickedness never ceases to delight <3) 
> 
> Thanks also to LadyCharity, scientistsinistral, and WafflesRisa, each of whom provided a listening ear and inspiration when I needed it, and without whom a great deal of this chapter would have gone MUCH differently. InconsistentlyPassionate and Constantbellpepper were also there to listen while I cried about the Blakes. 
> 
> Lastly, and as ever, dear lovely readers: your comments are life-sustaining and inspire us to new heights <3 On here or on tumblr (@lizofalltrades or @marbat), feel free to tell us your thoughts! 
> 
> Next up: Interluuuuuuuude! That should be out within a week. The next plot chapter will be out a week after that, and hopefully -- not as long. If you’re looking for more in the meantime -- LadyCharity has wrapped up her lovely work [“here be dragons!”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23145802/chapters/55392841) It is very lovely and touching, dear readers, you would not believe!!! Also, scientistsinistral is working on a new fic called [“take my whole life too,”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990692/chapters/57709579) which just recently had a third chapter published -- it’s a very cute fic exploring Will & his wife’s relationship through their wedding anniversaries. (I’m going to go read it now!)
> 
> Historical Notes:  
> 1\. Is this really how Edwardian England worked?
> 
> You know what? We have noooooooo idea. We honestly started researching all the fuss and bother and manners and social constraints and pretty much died at the sheer volume of limitations! on! everything!!! Basically, we did a lot of research, then decided that to explain it all would make the story more . . . of a textbook. So we, um. Tried not to go into detail about that stuff. Sorry :/ If you’re looking for more re: Edwardian England, you may want to check out that “Downton Abbey” TV show?
> 
> 2\. Okay but like. The good stuff!!! What is all this fuss about marriage and courting? Why was it improper to be alone with a widowed woman?
> 
> Wow, that's a very long story that goes back to Georgian-era England (1710ish-1830ish) and the social shift when Queen Victoria came to the throne and the Victorian Era started (1820ish-1900ish) and -- you know what? Simply put: Victorians felt that the Georgians were wild and footloose and fancy-free, so the Victorians got super conservative, socially speaking. (This is why we have those horrible tableclothes that go all the way to the ground -- the table legs were considered to be too reminiscent of bare human legs and might be inappropriately exciting, y'know!) In the Edwardian Era (1900ish-1920ish) these social restrictions were loosened up . . . a bit.
> 
> Anyway! **Middle and upper-class marriages** were almost all totally arranged; marriage was considered first and foremost an economic arrangement. (If you've seen Tim Burton's _The Corpse Bride,_ you'll have seen this in action -- marrying the heiress of the noble family off to the young son of a wealthy merchant family, etc. etc.) This meant that producing heirs was paramount -- and the legitimacy of those heirs was very important indeed. Over time this led to the prevailing social more that women who associated with men (who weren't her father or husband) _before_ sufficient heirs were produced (so before marriage/before having enough children) were suspect, damaging their reputation. This was particularly economically dangerous for the woman, as women who were married were not permitted to hold or retain property or business. Widows had a little more leeway, but it was, of course, a man's world back then.
> 
> Men were not as endangered by such behavior (as they were not dependent on their wives for their livelihood in the same way). HOWEVER, a man who had affairs with a woman who was of a lower social class did suffer damage to his reputation, and a man who had an affair with a woman of his own social class (particularly if she was someone who hadn't yet secured her place as the producer of an heir of indisputable legitimacy) was seen as someone lacking honor. So there was sufficient social discouragement for the men to make it an overall societal thing, that these people would not associate freely between the sexes without sufficient chaperonage.
> 
> (Fun side fact, though: because marriages were made mostly for economic reasons rather than love, adultery was basically expected!) 
> 
> But again -- this is for the middle and upper classes. The lower classes were not nearly as affected by this!


	4. nwl: Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _now we lie_ Interlude 1: Miscellaneous material, including two editions of the 8th Division's trench magazine, "The Passchen Times," as well as the correspondence of Mrs Sophia Spencer and Lieutenant Joseph Blake, from February and March 1918.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sorry in advance for formatting -- tried for columns, couldn't get 'em, and something's bound to be totally messed up. On the bright side, Vuvu did a fabulous job with the newspaper headers!]

February Edition of _The Passchen Times._

__

**Intelligence Summary.**  
\--o--o--o--  
A Regiment  
\--o--o--

For the 24 hours ending in the Early Morning. (?)  
7 a.m. -- Bosche seen at K.42.b.9.7, wearing a pair of boots. (Normal.)  
8.45 a.m. -- Hun aeroplane pursued one of our carrier pigeons over our lines. After a burst of M.G. fire, our pigeon was seen to crumple up and crash to the ground. Corpse was retrieved under covering fire by some unnamed Private.  
9.30 a.m. -- One of our machines in retaliation dropped a 200 ton bomb on a German at H.69.b.2.3. Good results were observed. Our machine returned safely.  
11.5 a.m. -- Enemy fired 10 Pomegranates and one Pumpkin into our sap at H.62.c.7.8. The fruits and vegetable could not be located.  
Noon -- A bombardment by our Stokes’s guns was followed by shrieks and groans from the enemy trenches.  
12.50 p.m. -- Enemy fired 80 Minnies. Seventy of these exploded in our front line. No damage was done. Our heavy artillery at once replied by bombarding our own support line for two hours. At the finish of the bombardment our support line was completely obliterated. This proves the superiority of our ammunition.  
1.15 p.m. -- The enticing scent of pigeon-pumpkin-pomegranate stew haunted the line for a good hour. Despite best efforts to locate it, stew disappeared before it could be found.  
3 p.m. -- Sniper located at H.Z.0.5. He had been lured out by the lingering smell of stew. Dispersed by the fire of our heavy artillery.  
4.10 p.m. -- Four sandbags in our front line damaged by T.M. fire. A Court of Inquiry will be held to fix the responsibility for placing them there.  
6.50 p.m. -- A flare fired by a Bosche burst into puce and yellow stars. These were thought to be crescent shaped. Besides the subsequent angry bellowing of a very large animal, nothing unusual followed.  
8.30 p.m. -- Under cover of darkness, the Company’s animal control patrol set out for the Bosche trenches.   
9.50 p.m. -- Strange noise heard near, sounded like an ostrich in the Bosche trenches munching glass, or a train.  
11.30 p.m. -- Animal control patrol returned with the head of what appeared to be a large scaly reptile.  
12 m.n. -- Flight of 20 Zeppelins seen by officer on duty, who failed to report on the proper form, and no action was taken.   
2.50 a.m. -- One of our patrols brought in a pink garter, whereby an important identification has been established. Messages dispatched to Captain H-------- to notify him of its appearance.  
4.10 a.m. -- Bosche heard playing a barrel-organ in No Man’s Land. Organ located at H.22.c.3.4. After a heavy concentration of fire the music ceased and a jolly chorus started instead. The organ had disappeared by daylight.

* * *

** Our MATRIMONIAL COLUMN. **

Everything in this department receives the greatest discretion and secrecy, and correspondents may be assured that all correspondence is treated with the utmost delicacy.

\--:o:--

LIEUT COLONEL. --Tall and striking appearance. Just recovered from wound, feels lost now without feminine attentions, and would welcome correspondence that might ultimately end in providing him with congenial society for life.--Write Robert, ℅ this paper.

\--:o:--

BRIG GENERAL. --Young -- charming personality -- feels lonely. Bashfulness has made him take this way of settling his future happiness, and he would like to correspond with some priceless young lady matrimonially inclined.--Write Lewis, ℅ this paper.

\--:o:--

CAPTAIN. --Gone grey through loneliness. Feels that his life could be brightened by the introduction of a female element. Romantic disposition, and has had many “affaires,” but would entertain an opportunity of settling down. Widow preferred. Money no object, but would like one with small public house.--Write Rufus, ℅ this paper.

\--:o:--

LIEUTENANT. --25, handsome and dashing appearance. Thoroughly domesticated and capable of looking after the home. Feels lost in his present position of senior Lieutenant. Fond of cats. Would welcome correspondence with a view to matrimony. Money no object as he has his pay.--Write Baker, ℅ this paper.

\--:o:--

(Many thousand advertisements are held over for lack of space.)

* * *

  
OUR NEW SERIAL.  
\--o--o--o--  
**HERLOCK SHOLMES AT IT AGAIN.  
**\--o--o--o--  
SHOT IN THE CULVERT.  
\--o--o--o--  
Final Installment  
\--o--o--o--  
Characters:--Same as before.  
\--o--o--o--  
**CHAPTER 6.  
**\--o--

Sholmes and Co having arrived at their new sphere of action speedily got going again. Intha Pink seized his hammer and nail and fell off the bus when near Hyde Park Corner. Meanwhile Hotsam had disappeared into the darkness, on a mysterious errand, taking the fair Honoria with him. Lizzie, as she saw his stalwart form disappearing from her sight, cried “Do not leave me Herbert,” but a curse was her only answer. In despair she threw herself in the way of a passing whizz-bang and disappeared from our tale. Intha crept rapidly towards his objective, and had almost succeeded in attaining his end, when a machine gun spat in his direction. Completely perforated; yet he smiled happily, and murmured “It’s a blighty.” Here we leave him, and turn to a series of eventful happenings on the banks of the Douve. Hotsam, still dragging Honoria and perspiring freely, had managed to reach the lifeless form of Bill Banks, when a 17in. shell detonated between them. Hissing out “We are discovered” he hurriedly grabbed Honoria and made off. But not far. Alas! His foot slipped and with his burden he fell into the turbid waters below. The waters flowed on. Sholmes, appearing on the scene some hours after, rapidly began looking for clues. Having found some, the great detective started off, but too late, the gas was on him, and he had left his vermoral sprayer in the bus. And so ends this remarkable history of persistence and sagacity. The great enemy of the criminal is now only a name, but his methods must always remain one of the marvels of the criminal history of our nation.

THE END.

[N.B.--Should there be a few characters not dealt with in this Chapter the reader must understand that they all met their deaths in the liquid fire attack.--The Author.]

* * *

Are You A Victim To  
**OPTIMISM?**  
\--o--o--o--  
_You Don’t Know?_  
\--o--o--o--  
THEN ASK YOURSELF THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS.  
\--o--o--o--

1.--Do you suffer from CHEERFULNESS?  
2.--Do you wake up in a morning feeling that ALL is GOING WELL FOR THE ALLIES?  
3.--Do you sometimes think that the WAR WILL END within the NEXT 12 MONTHS?  
4.--Do you believe GOOD NEWS in preference to BAD?  
5.--Do you consider our Leaders are COMPETENT to CONDUCT THE WAR TO A SUCCESSFUL ISSUE?

If your answer is “yes” to any one of these questions then you are in the clutches of that dread disease.  
**WE CAN CURE YOU.**  
Two days spent at our establishment will effectually eradicate all traces of it from your system.  
Do not hesitate -- apply for terms at once to:--  
Messrs. Walthorpe, Foxley, Nelmes and Co.  
Telephone 72, “Grumblestones.” Telegrams: “Grouse.”

* * *

THE PASSCHENDAELE PLAYHOUSE  
\--o--o--o--o--  
THIS WEEK--GREAT REVIEW.  
**HULLO TANKO**  
FAMOUS “ALL STAR” CASTE, BOSCH BEAUTY CHORUS  
\--o--o--o--o--  
Preceded by a lively curtain raiser, entitled   
ZERO PLUS 5  
\--o--o--o--o--  
Screaming Farce, Entitled  
OVER THE TOP  
\--o--o--o--o--  
“No Treating” Order Absolutely Ignored, and We still have a Promenade.   
BOOK EARLY. PRICES AS USUAL.

* * *

February 13, 1918

Dear Lt. Blake,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and in better spirits than when we last met. When you came to call, it was clear to me that you should have liked to return to the Front and the company of your men; I hope you were able to return safely and without much inconvenience.

If it is not too much to enquire, would you write to me about your men? As a Lieutenant, am I correct in assuming you command a platoon? I know it is impossible to write anything current about the situation at the Front, but surely you can talk about some of the individuals with whom you work closely. Believe me when I say receiving such a letter will alleviate the tedium of February. 

I am afraid Halifax has grown rather dreary with your departure. Our initial introduction may have been entirely unlooked for, but I happily admit it did wonders in brightening my stay. Even the Waterfords commented on how charmingly you presented yourself -- you’ve an admirer in Miss Waterford, though I know she would be infuriated with me for telling you so. 

As it happens, I am returning home to Leeds for the time being. My new address is enclosed. 

Sincerely,

Sophia Spencer

~ * ~

February 21, 1918

Dear Mrs Spencer,

I have indeed safely rejoined the 2nd and am presently enjoying the company of my men in a sea of mud. It has been a miserable winter in these conditions, but the lot of them are in relative good cheer.

I had purchased a package of lemon drops from a man selling sweets outside the train depot in Southampton and shared them around with the men. I try not to stoop to bribery, but have found, on occasion, a slight taste of home can brighten spirits immensely. Privates Lester & Rutherford were particularly appreciative, revealing to us all that both of their families run sweet shops as they spent a good fifteen minutes deriding the confectioner who made the candies for their ‘lackluster flavor and sheen.’ It provided my men a good deal of entertainment, and prompted no less than 25 jokes about our rations not being ‘zesty’ enough in the first three days.

Both my Captain and my Sergeant -- by the names of Richards and Schofield, respectively -- were also cheered by my return. The Captain was due to go on leave as soon as I returned, and left the running of the Company to me. My Sergeant has had practice in running the platoon before, and was simply happy to resume our post-supper walks.

How do you find Leeds this time of year? Even in Halifax, there is a common consensus that it is very far north. And -- forgive me, but upon reflection, I realise I mistook you for a woman from London from your manner of speech. How did you come by it from Leeds?

I am sorry to hear Halifax did not live up to your expectations in the end. I hope future visits will leave a better impression.

Sincerely,

Joseph Blake

~ * ~

March 1, 1918

Dear Lt. Blake,

What a delightful story! It is a funny thing, how a familiar flavour can bring one back to such memories of happier times. And that your whole platoon was able to share in the enjoyment is a pleasure to hear. Are lemon drops a particular favourite of yours, or was it simply what was available at the time? I must confess that I myself have a particular fondness for chocolate. I bless Cadbury’s every day for continuing production undaunted by the war effort.

It seems it is no coincidence now that we stumbled upon each other outside the Loxley’s hall! That is one mystery solved, then -- you simply had not yet taken your evening walk. It was fortunate timing, in the end, for it was indeed rather chilly if I recall, and I was starting to steel myself with a return indoors for want of company to relieve my boredom. 

You mention you are filling in for your Captain -- you are the senior lieutenant, then? How have you found the experience?

You have a keen ear, Lt. Blake! My parents are in London, and that is where I spent much of my youth. At the moment, I reside in the house left to me by my late husband. If, as you say, even Halifax counts Leeds as very northern -- I can assure you it was a daunting prospect when I first moved here from London! 

Still, it has grown on me. Leeds enjoys much the same weather as Halifax, I imagine, though of course I do not know for certain. Here it is very grey at present, but without much rain at this time of year. The days grow longer and warmer as each one passes, and they may even reach tolerable temperatures by August. 

Alas -- future visits to Halifax are simply out of the question until I can be assured I will have suitable company. Do let me know when next you will be home on leave, and I may reconsider.

Sincerely,

Sophia Spencer

~ * ~

March 9, 1918

Dear Mrs Spencer,

I feel very fortunate at present -- we have just been moved back to reserve and I found your letter waiting for me. Some thoughtful soul heard that the division was being transferred to this place and held the mail, rather than send it to the Front for it to only just miss us. We are to spend a good while where we are now, in training.

I am afraid it was the latter -- the lemon drops were simply the sweet available that could be distributed the furthest. I have never disliked lemon drops, but I am rather more partial to peppermint sticks, or honey lozenges. 

Having spent nearly two weeks acting as Captain, I will be pleased to hand it back to Richards when he returns. It has not been a trial, really -- I seemed to have more and less to do, overall -- but I did miss the company of my platoon, who are a rather cheerful lot, compared to some of the others. Still, I think that if I am offered the opportunity to advance in the future, I should not turn it down a second time.

That is quite the transition! What is London like? I have not had much occasion to visit it, as much of my father’s business is tied up in the mills in the north. I have heard that there is always something to do and that it can be very loud indeed, even in the dead of the night. 

Is that so? I shan’t be up for leave for another two months, unfortunately -- but by then, perhaps the weather will be more to your liking, anyhow.

Sincerely,

Joseph Blake

* * *

March edition of _The Passchen Times._

__

**A DAY FROM THE LIFE OF A “SUB” IN DIVISIONAL RESERVE**  
By HIMSELF  
\--o--o--o--

12.40 a.m.--Sleeping peacefully.  
12.45 a.m.--Not sleeping peacefully.  
12.50 a.m.--Awakened by a noise like a fog-horn gone quite mad.  
12.55 a.m.--Realise someone has smelt gas, cannot find gas-helmet or shirt.  
1 a.m.--Grope about for matches and candle--find out to my discomfort several extra articles of furniture in the hut--curse volubly.  
1.5 a.m.--People rush in to remind me that I am an orderly “bloke.” Have heated altercation with “next for duty” as to when term of office ends. Matter settled by the entrance of C.O.--AM orderly officer.  
1.15 a.m.--Stumble round camp--rumour of “Stand-to”--curse abominably.  
1.30 a.m.--Rumour squashed--gas alarm false--somebody’s clockwork motor-bike horn came unstuck--curse again--retire to bed.  
3.30 a.m.--Sleeping peacefully.  
3.35 a.m.--Alarming noise. Somebody with bigger feet than sense of decency enters the hut; and knocks over a bully-beef box doing excellent work as a chair, collides with everybody’s field-boots, mistakes my bed for his, and sits down on same-- . . .  
3.59 a.m.--Order restored by Company Commander.  
6.0 a.m.--Reveille.   
6.30 a.m.-- Get up, and wearily put on one or two garments, including somebody else’s tie. Spend pleasant moments searching for my wandering collar stud.  
7 a.m.--Go out and wave my limbs about for 45 minutes to the tune of “Head backward be e-e-nd.”  
7.45 a.m.--Try to shave--we have one mirror amongst six.  
8 a.m.--Breakfast. The cook has plentifully peppered the sausage, put salt in my tea by mistake.  
9 a.m.--Take party to and from the baths--one man has no cap badge--collect a bird from Adjutant. Have a bath myself, when nicely soaped the water gives out, becoming mud--curse offensively.  
10 a.m.--Orderly room--attend with Company conduct sheets, collect another bird. Make arrangements for a cage and a supply of seed for same.  
11 a.m.--Retire to hut and quaff a stoop of ale.  
11.5 a.m.--Two in-command arrives inopportunely, speaks his mind and retires.  
11.10 a.m.--Inspect my huts and men, their clothes, rifles, gas-helmets, feet, etc.  
12 noon.--Realise I am not being as offensive as I might be, so go and annoy the next Company (who were working last night): by creeping in, starting their gramophone with the loudest, longest and most loathed record, and creeping out again.  
12.10 p.m.--Angry “sub” in pyjamas enters, am busy writing letters. After a few choice remarks about people in general and myself in particular, he goes away.  
1 p.m.--Lunch.  
2 p.m.--Sleeping peacefully.  
4.30 p.m.--Tea.  
5 p.m.--Fall in working party, astonishing number in my platoon suffer from bad feet at this hour. Discuss their ailment with them, and inspect members affected.  
6.30 p.m.--Reach lorries and pack men in. No. 9999 Pte Jones X falls off and sprains his ankle, and proceeds to camp.  
7.30 p.m.--Arrive at rendez-vous and await R.E.  
8 p.m.--Await R.E.  
9 p.m.--Await R.E.  
9.15 p.m.--R.E. arrive in the shape of one most intelligent sapper.  
9.30 p.m.--Loaded with material, proceed to job.  
9.45 p.m.--My sergeant rushes up. Pte. McNoodle, a sheet of corrugated iron, a duckboard, and a crump-hole full of water have got rather mixed. Leave a lance-corporal to straighten matters.  
10 p.m.--German machine-gun annoying. Grateful for tin-hat.  
12 m.n.--A certain well-known sergeant is encountered, exiting a ruined church-yard. Pleasant conversation is exchanged.  
1 a.m.--Return to lorries.  
2 a.m.--Reach camp and retire to bed.

* * *

_As performed by the 2nd West Yorks’ own A Company earlier this month -- script of the highly controversial scene reproduced here for those otherwise preoccupied!_

** “OURS OR THEIRS” **

\--:o:--  
**SCENE:** ANY BATTALION HEADQUARTERS IN LINE  
**TIME:** THE PRESENT  
\--:o:--

The Adjutant is discovered doing nothing in particular.  
Enter the Heavy T.M. Officer and the Medium T.M. Officer.  
Both (apologetically): Good morning !  
Adj. (interrogatively): Good morning !  
H.T.M.O. : I’m the flying pig merchant.  
M.T.M.O. : And I’m the--  
Adj. (grimly): Oh! I know you all right! Sit down and have a drink!  
Both: Thanks very much.  
H.T.M.O. : I’ve come to arrange a little shoot this afternoon. (Drinks.)  
M.T.M.O. : And I may as well fire at the same time.  
Adj. (thoughtfully): Yes -- er -- what time shall we say? Have another drink?  
Both: Thanks very much!  
M.T.M.O. : 2.30 would suit me down to the ground! I haven’t had lunch yet.  
H.T.M.O. : Shall we say 2.30 then?  
Adj. : All right! I’ll have the line cleared by then. By-the-way, where’s your O.P.? I should like to see the show!  
Both: In Tenth Avenue.  
Adj. : I shouldn’t have thought you could see much from there.  
Both: Well you see, if you study the map, you’ll find the contour gives it about three yards higher than --  
Adj. : Quite so! (As they rise) Have another drink before you go?  
H.T.M.O. (regretfully): No, thanks very much!  
M.T.M.O. (hastily): Thanks very much! (gulps) 2.30 sharp then! Good morning!

\--o--o--o--  
**SCENE 2:** AN O.P.  
**TIME:** 2.30 P.M.  
**TEMPERATURE:** ZERO  
\--:o:--

Adjutant is discovered sitting in readiness. He has a pair of binoculars slung round his neck. He has forgotten his British Warm.  
Thirty minutes elapse.  
Enter M.T.M.O and H.T.M.O with brace of telephonists.  
Both (cheerily): So sorry. Afraid we’re a bit late. Hope we haven’t kept you waiting?  
Adj. (shortly): Not at all.  
H.T.M.O. : Never mind. We’ll start right away. They’ve got their line and range. Tell ‘em to report when ready.  
No. 1 Tel. : Hallo, there. Hallo, hallo, hallo, No. 1 gun, hallo, hallo, Hallo, HALLO!!  
No. 2 Tel. : Is that No. 3 gun? Report when ready please.  
No. 1 Tel. : Hallo, Hallo, HALLO!?  
H.T.M.O. : Damn that wire.  
M.T.M.O. : Thank Heaven, my wire’s all right. Fire.  
M.T.M.O. : Curse. It’s a dud. Tell ‘em to repeat.  
No. 1 Tel. : Hallo, Hallo, HALLO.  
H.T.M.O. : It’s no darn good. The blasted wire’s gone. You’d better slip along and put it right.  
M.T.M.O. : What the blazes is wrong with No. 3 gun? Tell ‘em to wake up a bit.  
No. 2 Tel. : Misfire, sir. Rifle mechanism blown out, sir. Just trying another, sir. Hallo No. 3, No. 3 fired, sir.  
M.T.M.O. : There she goes. Good. A beauty. See all that timber and corrugated iron go up? There’s a duckboard and two old buckets. Excellent. Repeat.  
No. 1 Tel. (returning): All right now, sir. Hallo there No. 1, can you hear? Right. No. 1 ready to fire, sir.  
H.T.M.O. : Fire.  
No. 2 Tel. : Hallo, hallo, hallo, hallo, No. 3 gun, Hallo, HALLO.  
H.T.M.O. : Good Lord. It’s a short. Thank Heavens, it’s a dud. Wait a bit though, I used a 19 fuse.  
(A gigantic explosion is observed.)  
M.T.M.O. : Bad luck, old man.  
No. 2 Tel. : Hallo, No. 3. Hallo, hallo, Hallo, HALLO. No good, sir.  
M.T.M.O. : Darn these infernal wires.  
(Enter battalion runner completely out of breath.)  
Runner (to Adjutant): Captain Jones, sir, ‘as sent me to tell you as ‘ow the cook ‘ouse and men’s latrines ‘ave been blown up, sir. A toffee apple landed right between ‘em, sir.  
M.T.M.O. : Oh, damn, I’m awfully sorry.  
No. 1 Tel. (to H.T.M.O.): Gun out of action, sir. Bed jumped out, sir.  
Adj. (shivering): Thank God. A most interesting afternoon, you fellows. Let me know what time the hymn of hate comes off to morrow. Cheerio!  
Both: ! ! ! ! ! 

* * *

**CUPID’S CORNER  
**By “Cynthia”

As the Editor has been so troubled with correspondence from lovelorn members of the Division and feels that he is not qualified to deal with this section of his readers, he has deputed me to deal with them, and I shall be pleased to give advice in all little difficulties relating to “affaires de coeur.”

\--o--o--o--  
_Answers to Correspondents._  
\--:o:--

 **T** roubled.--Your letter is rather obscure. Am I to understand that you have actually proposed, or that you are merely waiting an opportunity. As you appeared to be in a position to marry, I think it is your clear duty to do so at once. Remember no girl of spirit likes to be played with.

 **R** ed Tab.--Thanks for the enclosed photo. You appear to be a very nice-looking boy. I am sorry to disappoint you, but if the young lady whom you call Tina has already refused the attentions of two generals, then do you not think it would be better to dismiss her from your thoughts. It may hurt now, but will soon be over.

 **C** lara.--Yes, I think the major treated you very badly indeed. But do not worry, forget him, and anyway he is only a major.

 **G** inger.--I am surprised that you should address such a letter to a lady! You ought to write and beg her forgiveness at once. But please let me know what she answers.

CYNTHIA  
The “Love Expert”

* * *

Are You A Victim To  
**PESSIMISM?**  
\--o--o--o--  
_You Don’t Know?_  
\--o--o--o--  
THEN ASK YOURSELF THE FOLLOWING QUESTIONS.  
\--o--o--o--

1.--Do you suffer from COMMON SENSE?  
2.--Do you wake up in a morning feeling that ALL is GOING TO HELL IN A HAND BASKET?  
3.--Do you sometimes think that the WAR WILL NEVER END without DIVINE INTERVENTION?  
4.--Do you believe BAD NEWS in preference to GOOD?  
5.--Do you consider our Leaders are UNABLE or UNWILLING to CONDUCT THE WAR TO A SUCCESSFUL ISSUE?

If your answer is “yes” to any one of these questions then you are free of the taint of that terrible ailment, OPTIMISM.  
**WE CONGRATULATE YOU ON YOUR GOOD HEALTH.**  
Two days spent at our establishment will effectually reinforce your sense of superiority and cheer you with like company!  
Do not hesitate -- apply for terms at once to:--  
Messrs. Walthorpe, Foxley, Nelmes and Co.  
Telephone 72, “Grumblestones.” Telegrams: “Grouse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, no -- I did not actually write the majority of these hilarious articles. They are selected from a massive .pdf of scanned originals -- MASSIVE thanks to LadyCharity for that and the rest of her resources on trench newspapers! -- because, frankly, I could not come up with a tenth of this beauteous wealth. Some articles are tweaked to better suit the characters, however -- can you spot the additions? ;)
> 
> Secondly -- you may note that chapter count has been upped! The next plot chapter was turning into a 30k monstrosity that wasn't paced as well as we liked, so we decided to split it up. It is almost finished and will be out either Thursday or Friday. Huge thanks to Vuvu for listening to me rant about it at very late hours -- darling, you are the greatest gift YHWH has granted to me :) 
> 
> Thirdly -- [LADYCHARITY WROTE FANFIC](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24339385) OF BETWEEN THE CROSSES IT IS THE MOST GLORIOUS?? THING?? ??? IT MADE US BOTH CRY REAL, ACTUAL, UGLY TEARS WITH HOW PERFECT IT IS, AND IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT YOU SHOULD GO READ IT RIGHT NOW GO GO GO!!!
> 
> Historical Notes:  
> February edition notes!  
> In order, articles were curated from:  
> \- B.E.F. Times, No 2. Vol 1. Monday, 25th December, 1916.  
> \- "New Church" Times, No 2. Vol 1. Monday, May 1st, 1916.  
> \- B.E.F. Times, No 1. Vol 1. Friday, 1st December, 1916.  
> \- The Somme-Times, No 1. Vol 1. Monday, 31st July, 1916.  
> \- B.E.F. Times, No 1. Vol 1. Friday, 1st December, 1916.
> 
> March edition notes!  
> In order, articles were curated from:  
> -The "New Church" Times. No 4. Vol 1. Monday, May 29th, 1916.  
> \- The B.E.F. Times, No 4. Vol 1. March 5th, 1917.  
> \- The "New Church" Times, No 3. Vol 1. Monday, May 22nd, 1916.  
> \- PARODY of the original article, from The Somme-Times, No 1. Vol 1. Monday, 31st July, 1916.


	5. nwl: March 22nd - 25th, 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _now we lie_ Chapter 1: The Germans' Spring Offensives begin.

_ March 22nd, 1918 -- Tilques, France _

Someone knocks precisely twice upon the door. Joseph knows it is Will; Clive, though he shares the room with Joseph, usually attempts to ghost his way in to shrink into his bed, scared of attracting the senior Lieutenant’s attention. Even when a non-commissioned officer comes in, Clive won’t dare to raise a fuss, particularly since Joseph gave Will his express permission. However, they have arranged this instance in advance. Clive is off, probably attempting to learn something about manhood, poor bugger -- well, that is uncharitable. Anyway, Joseph has a drink ready for Will when Will opens the door without Joseph saying so.

“How much longer do you think we’ll wait?” Joseph asks whimsically, handing the cup to Will. Will takes it and thunks it against Joseph’s drink with energy, not enthusiasm; two weeks’ worth of  _ hurry up and wait _ has been draining on them all. 

“You’d know better than I,” Will replies drily, grimacing through the first swallow. He makes a truly extraordinary face at the spare tin mug Joseph keeps for such occasions. “I don’t understand how you can drink this stuff.”

“I don’t understand how you can keep from hoarding the rum ration the men get, and yet here we are,” Joseph retorts. It’s not a bad thing, though -- liquid courage helps everyone get over the top, and a Sergeant who doesn’t drink it all himself is almost as rare as hen’s teeth.

Will waves this aside. It’s an old argument. “So what are we facing tomorrow?” he asks. And for once, without Tom around, Joseph is getting the full personality of his Sergeant -- dry, slightly sardonic, and with an endless capacity for cleverness. Sometimes Joseph wonders how Will ever got caught by his first Sergeant after Fromelles with the way Will manages to squeak through the cracks and out of every situation thrown at him. 

Joseph shrugs, knowing full well how amusingly infuriating it can be for Will. “Training, most likely.”

Will makes another face and drinks at that. Joseph follows suit. “But more seriously,” Joseph continues, “I doubt it will be much longer. I’ve heard the Germans have attacked at last.”

Together, they sit down. It has become a very welcome routine -- after supper, a drink and a walk -- not always in that order. But it is comfortable, being with someone who is so similar in so many ways. Joseph looks at Will and sees the lines around Will’s eyes, the way Will holds his family close to his heart no matter how much it hurts, the way Tom often hangs about -- as a ghost or as a memory -- and Joseph sees himself. 

There are differences, of course. Joseph’s family are just his parents -- at the moment; he can’t help but find the corners of the letter arrived only a few hours ago to fiddle with at the thought -- but being or thinking of home still cuts more deeply than it should. And Will hasn’t written to his wife, yet, despite all Tom’s encouragement . . .

“I’ve heard they shall have more men to throw at us,” Will says neutrally, interrupting Joseph’s train of thought. His Sergeant’s tone is even, but his stillness speaks to the underlying fears they all have, on the Front. 

“They are no longer at war with Russia,” Joseph confirms, equally neutral. He swallows; he’s studied enough military tactics to know what that means. “It is only logical.” He shakes himself, though -- it’s no good to dwell on these things at the moment, when it is only disheartening and not in the slightest bit productive! “But how are the men doing?” 

Will’s less-than-formal report, complete with politely censored expletives, gives Joseph a better picture of where the men are at. After acting as Captain for a few weeks, Joseph is struck by how -- much smaller the magnitude is; these affairs aren’t really comparable to what he’s had to deal with most recently. And after two weeks of not paying strict attention to the goings-on of the men of 5th Platoon, relatively little has changed, overall. It is a surprising realisation.

“But this isn’t that interesting to you,” Will says, perceptive as ever. He’s eyeing the letter Joseph has been toying with all throughout the conversation. “What’s that, then?”

Joseph protests, because it isn’t that he isn’t interested, obviously. Even if acting as Captain has -- well, he wouldn’t say it’s changed his views so much as broadened his scope; the men of the 5th are the men he knows the best, and the ones he (selfishly) cares the most about. “It’s not that --”

The look of amused tolerance his  _ own Sergeant _ shoots him is nothing less than the deepest betrayal. --Thank God Tom isn’t here.

“Fine,” Joseph says, relenting. “I haven’t had time to read it yet -- it arrived today.”

Will nods encouragingly. He’s got that know-it-all expression on his face, the one he tries so hard to hide very frequently around the younger soldiers -- Joseph knows it well, because he often wears it himself. It is uncomfortably flustering to have it directed towards  _ him. _ “So -- it’s a girl. Did you meet someone?”

“Er,” Joseph says. How the  _ hell _ did Schofield know that? --Wait, stupid question. Will is around the men all the fucking time, of course he knows. There’s only --

“--one thing that makes a man as flustered as all that,” Will finishes. Forget his expression being hidden -- the look on Will’s face is downright  _ gleeful. _ \--For him, at least. Joseph feels it as the man looks him up and down, reading a million subtle signals Joseph hasn’t even thought to hide. “A woman, then?”

Joseph chokes. “How do you know that?” he demands, leaning forward. “I haven’t even said a thing --”

“You wouldn’t look that twitchy if you were more sure of yourself, relative to her,” Will observes. Joseph takes a rebellious sip of his drink to, hopefully, cover his expression “Cheer up, Joseph, at least you’ll both know what you’re doing on your wedding night--”

Joseph sputters a laugh at that, choking in earnest on his mouthful. He should be offended at the crude humour on Mrs Spencer’s behalf, but since it is coming from Will, he’s really, really not. “You utter  _ shit,” _ he manages, coughing to clear his throat. “So eager to marry me off, are you?”

“Of course,” Will says, totally straight-faced. “Captain Richards offered up a reward of  £100 for whomever can arrange it -- I could use the money, buy my wife a new set of first-edition books or something --” 

At that, the both of them can’t keep their faces straight; they laugh themselves sick. When they are recovering, gasping for breath, Joseph pours them both another drink. 

“Really, though, -- I mean, yes,” he says, a little abashed. “She was -- the only pleasant thing about being at home, I think. And I met her quite by accident . . .”

He relates the tale, with Will nodding or laughing at all the appropriate spots -- the original meeting is met with sober attentiveness, the later call upon her and her friend’s family with an actual smile. It is very easy to talk to Will, sometimes. 

“But -- you’re married, Will, how did you meet yours?” Joseph asks, now thoroughly relaxed. And curious; he doesn’t think he’s heard this story. And Will is leaning back in his seat, comfortable, perhaps comfortable enough to open up about it. He looks thoughtful at Joseph’s question, and opens his mouth -- 

Tom bursts into the room, not bothering with the door. “Will! Will, you wouldn’t believe -- Joe! Oh, excellent, I won’t have to make two trips, then. You lot --” Tom stops, looking at the two of them. “Wait. Am I interrupting?”

“Only a bit,” Will says, voice dry. He is on the edge of his seat, just as Joseph is; they are too used to Tom coming with some tidbit of dire news. “Is something going on?”

Tom takes in their postures, and perhaps notices how badly he has startled them; he looks a little abashed and mumbles as he says “Er-- nothing. Pearson’s lit into Upton, is all.”

Will is the first to lean back again, snorting. “Fine,” he says. His conscious effort to relax allows Joseph to let go of some of his tension, as well. “Farley will sort them out.”

Tom shrugs, a little uneasy still. “I suppose,” he says. “Anyway, go on. What were you talking about?”

“How you should definitely try some of this,” Will says, holding up his cup. “It’s some fancy label, yeah?”

Joseph snickers at the dubious look Tom gives Will. He flicks the bottle to back up his Sergeant. “He’s not wrong. You’ve never tried it, Tom, give it a go.”

“Joe, you need to stop getting him so drunk,” Tom says. “And no, thank you. It’s not likely to taste all that great and goodness knows it’ll knock me flat.”

Just then, someone knocks on the door. They all look towards it -- they are not expecting anyone to join them, and when Captain Richards visits he just barges in without waiting. Whatever peace had been restored after Tom’s interruption goes right out the window once again.

Joseph answers -- it’s a message runner. The man isn’t someone Joseph is familiar with, but he thinks he’s seen the runner waiting around Headquarters more than once. The man salutes and hands a slip of paper over. “Urgent message, Sir,” he says.

Joseph takes it and opens it. There is to be a meeting for the Lieutenants of B Company at 7.30 p.m., in Richards’s quarters. It is just barely after supper now, a few minutes before seven. 

“I’ll be there early,” Joseph tells the runner in response. The man nods and steps back out of the doorway, letting privacy establish itself into the room. 

“Is it something big?” Tom asks with interest. 

“There is a meeting for the Lieutenants of B Company in half an hour,” Joseph tells the two of them. 

Will crosses his arms and sits back in his seat. The humour that was in his face a moment ago is gone, sobering back into the business of war. “We’re to move out, then,” he says. 

“It must be the Bosche,” Tom says, darting around Joseph to try reading the message himself. “Hold it so I can read it, Joe.”

“After two weeks’ worth of sitting around here on twelve-hour notice? I bloody well hope it’s the Bosche,” Joseph says, making an effort to keep his tone light. “If it’s not, I don’t know  _ what _ we’ll do with the lads. They are going starkers as is.”

Will shakes his head. Joseph knows how he feels; it was a poor joke, true though it may be. He and Will grimly bid each other a good evening -- though they both know they will likely see each other again before the night is through.

\--But never mind that. Joseph arrives at Captain Richards’s quarters ten minutes early; he and his friend haven’t had a chance to catch up since Richards’s return to France. As Richards came back from England looking like death warmed over, nearly two weeks ago, and then spent every waking moment in some frantic business that left him with no time for much by the way of socialising, Joseph deems it ten minutes well spent. 

“So how was it?” Joseph asks as benignly as possible. He knows his own leave was not the best, and so he personally wouldn’t pry -- but it is the polite thing to do, and Richards probably needs someone to talk it over with. Joseph would like to show that he is available, at the least.

Richards looks at him blankly for a moment before his expression clears. “Leave, you mean?” he says. “It was wonderful! Well, not wonderful. It was leave.” He stops and looks bemused. “Apparently my parents’ scheming with all those oysters has borne fruit. My wife is expecting.”

“That’s wonderful!” Joseph says, astonished. All thoughts of the impending orders to move to the Front have been driven quite out of his head. This . . . is so very different from what Joseph was assuming he would hear, he is somewhat at a loss for a moment. But -- children! --That is a delight. Joseph feels a genuine smile spread across his face for what seems like the first time in months. “Congratulations. You’ll make a fine father, I’m sure,” he says, and claps Richards on the shoulder whole-heartedly.

“I don’t know about all that,” Richards harrumphs. Nevertheless, Joseph sees that Richards seems uncommonly pleased with himself. “I’ve no idea what to do about -- well, any of it. It just feels so sudden.”

Joseph actually laughs at that. “You’ve been trying for it for how long?” he reminds his friend. “Now you don’t have to fret about performing well on your leave in the future.”

Richards chortles at that. “I suppose that is true,” he allows, and seems to relax quite a bit. “Here,” he adds, pulling out a nice decanter -- Richards bothers with that sort of presentation. “A toast, then.”

“I am honored,” Joseph says with mock gravity, “especially as it appears I am the favoured Lieutenant. You know how to treat me!”

“Absolutely,” Richards says heartily, pouring them both a measure. “And a fine job you did of it while I was away, too. Crossed your T’s and dotted your I’s; everything was in perfect order. I’m not sure if I mentioned that.”

Richards has actually mentioned it already, but Joseph has a new appreciation for the level of scattered organisation a whole Company demands. Hundreds of tasks and decisions to be made nearly every day -- and one’s whole attention given to every single one of them! He does not feel slighted by Richards’s inability to remember expressing appreciation for Joseph’s attempts at matching Richards’s abilities. “You have, but I don’t mind hearing it again,” Joseph jokes, raising the glass Richards hands him in a salute.

They tap their glasses and drink. It’s all very mannerly. 

“Any other news from home?” Joseph enquires after the requisite wince and muffled cough. 

“Not much, no,” Richards replies. “Some neighbors having a tiff; the local women have organised into some sort of Institute. I managed to avoid all obligations to society by conveniently coming down with a cold, if you would believe!”

“Lucky, you are,” Joseph says. “If I’d tried that --”  _ Mother would have had every doctor in the county out to come check up on me _ is what he wants to say, but it’s not really correct, is it? And it doesn’t feel right to make light of her fears, given everything. “-- it wouldn’t have worked out nearly as well,” he amends. 

Fortunately, he doesn’t need to wallow in his inability to come up with adequate deflecting banter. This is when the others start to come in. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Clive asks nervously from the doorway, looking as though he’d spook right through the wall if either of them gave him the chance.

Richards downs the rest of his measure without a blink. “Not at all,” he says, somehow extending both warmth and sincerity. “Come on in. We were just wrapping up.”

Joseph follows Richards’s lead and sets the empty mug aside for Richards’s batman to deal with. “Lieutenant Clive,” he greets, politely.

Clive skitters in, looking as though he’d be more at home in some lot of trees with similarly boggle-eyed deer. Joseph is not obligated to make polite conversation long; Perry and Langley join them soon after. With the four of them present, Captain Richards can begin the briefing.

“I know you’ve all heard it from everyone else already, so I’ll say it plainly,” Richards says with little preamble once everyone has been appropriately greeted and welcomed into the room. “The Bosche have struck. We are ordered to move out tomorrow.”

“Where, Sir?” Langley asks.

“The Somme,” Captain Richards answers, gravely, both acknowledging and ignoring Perry’s and Joseph’s winces. They fought at the Somme. A second battle there is not going to be welcome, nor popular. Clive and Langley are newer, though, and have not had the experience.

“The Somme?” Clive stutters out. “Er -- is that, I mean, is that um. Is that really where we’re going?”

“It is,” Richards says. “The division is being sent on trains starting tonight. The 23rd Infantry should be rumbling towards the Front along that God-forsaken river sometime tomorrow. When we get there, we are to begin fighting -- immediately.”

“Do we know where we are being sent, Sir?” Joseph asks, formally.

“No,” Richards says, and looks grim for a moment. “The Third and the Fifth Army are fighting for their lives. We are there to help cover them as they retire to a more fortified position.”

“To where?” Parry demands. “How far are we fighting them?”

“We are retiring to the Western Bank,” Richards replies. 

The lot of them balk, though Perry is at least able to hide it the best. Joseph only hopes he manages to control himself as well. “Retiring” is the way it is phrased when they are retreating, but do not want to admit it -- or at least, that is always how it seemed to Joseph before. 

“Didn’t we hold miles of the Eastern Bank?” Langley asks tentatively. 

“Yes,” Joseph, Perry, and Richards all answer at the same time. Joseph exchanges looks with the two of them -- Perry looks just as ill as Joseph feels. Richards looks grim. 

“It is a tactical maneuver, nothing more,” Richards says tersely, trying to move them past the calculations. Such a maneuver -- giving up miles of the Front -- would only be worth it if there was serious pressure elsewhere. Joseph wonders when the Front elsewhere became so much more valuable than the lives they spent taking what they had along that bloody river.

Joseph finds it increasingly hard to believe anyone would willingly sacrifice their men’s lives in this war. Perhaps it is just that he has seen so much wastage of life. He has known his share of incompetent officers and he also has known his share of officers willing to play dice with death -- but not of late. And the thought of being sent into slaughter for little gain makes him -- feel sick, truthfully. He hopes it isn’t that his nerves are giving out at last. Anyway, if General Gough has decided to ‘retire’ -- there must be good reason for it. 

“Do we know anything about where we will be stationed?” he asks.

“No,” Richards admits, reluctantly. “The division is entraining starting at 0300 tomorrow morning. We will find out more about our orders when we arrive.”

Joseph starts. They have been on a 12 hours notice for weeks, now, but -- this is not 12 hours notice. He should get back to 5th Platoon -- 

\-- but no. The meeting isn’t over yet. He grapples with his apprehension and wrestles it down for the moment. 

“As soon as this meeting is over, you will need to return to your platoons and order them to make ready for entrainment,” Richards says. “We will detrain at Chaulnes and make our way to wherever we are stationed. The Front right now is -- fluid. Whatever conditions are reported to us before we leave are not going to be what we face.”

A year ago, Joseph would have leapt at the chance to show the Hun what a stout Englishman could do. A year ago, Joseph was not forced to face the ghosts of the men killed under his command. A year ago, Joseph had a brother who wasn’t dead.

A year ago, life was not -- difficult, as it is now.

Joseph stuffs those thoughts into the darkest, furthest corner of his mind. A year ago has no bearing on this conversation; he needs to focus on the present.

“Is there anything else, Sir?” Lieutenant Perry asks. 

Richards is silent for a moment. “Get ready, boys,” he says eventually, taking the time to look each of them in the eye. “We’re in for a hell of a fight.”

~ * ~

_ March 23rd, 1918 -- in transit to Chaulnes, France, then to the Front _

Despite the orders to board at 0300, the trains hadn’t been ready; then men had to wait until 0600 before the trains arrived. There was no explanation given at the time for the delay, which of course led to many wild theories from the lads in the platoon -- the prevalent understanding seemed to be that the German assault had something to do with it, though Tom personally favored the one about the train operators putting up a fuss until they’d been permitted to have an elaborate midnight snack -- and the end result was a load of men who hadn’t any rest and spent much of the ride after the initial hour of excitement of boarding in stupor, then sleep. It had not been restful. 

Most of the men in the platoon have not been in the Somme. The majority of the men who have fought in the Somme nearly two years ago are men who have either been killed or crippled, long since discharged from active duty due to inability to fight. The three members of the platoon besides Will and Joe who did fight in that battle -- Privates Brandt, Rutherford, and Hunt -- are quieter than the rest of the platoon. What sleep they got passed as nothing better than fitful napping interrupted by frequent nightmares. Even Will and Joe are having a hard time keeping up a good face for it.

Alright, maybe that isn’t fair to them. Will has long since perfected the art of looking extremely unimpressed by the world at large; that is the face he is wearing now. Tom sees the slight muscle tick in Will’s jaw and knows that it is absolutely an act, though he could have told that from the way Will kept dozing off against Joe’s shoulder before startling awake, until Will gave up on attempting to sleep altogether.

Joe, meanwhile, just looks inscrutable. For him, it’s telling: Joe can usually manage something more positive, if not outright encouraging, but at the moment his face is as emotionless as Joe can get. He is bothered by this, and very much so. Joe managed better sleep than Will, though not by much -- he didn’t startle awake nearly as often, but sometimes Will’s jumpiness set off Joe’s. Tom wishes they could both get a good night’s rest in a decent bed before jumping into what is sure to be a very rough spot of action.

But for the majority of the platoon, the fact that they are being sent to the Somme doesn’t matter. They are just happy to be sent somewhere that isn’t the dreaded Ypres-Passchendaele Swamp. And it isn’t as though they haven’t been involved in any action -- the Front is never quiet, not even in winter -- but it has been several months since their last major fight, late in November. Several of the less-experienced men are speculating wildly on the sort of combat they will see, the action they will face, what scars they will get -- the usual. 

As the ride grows long, even this interest wanes. 

Tom feels the bombardment long before they reach the Front. The whole platoon does; despite the clack and rattle of the train carriages on the tracks, the shrieking whistles and the explosions, muffled as they are by distance, are still audible from miles away. It’s an hour past noon, now -- those of the men who were awake have been grumbling about the lack of food, but now all of the men are awake in the compartment, listening with apprehension. 

“The bombardment seems really rough,” Tom says to Will, maybe a little nervously. 

Joe twitches, as though he’d like to respond, but catches himself. Too many men in here having low conversation, and too many looking increasingly jumpy. Will rubs at his chest, his breast-pocket, as though easing some ache, reminding Tom that he would pull him into the tin at the first sign of Tom losing his shape. 

The train slows within the next twenty minutes, chugging to a stop at some small train depot that has been recently enlarged. There is a train already on the platform, disgorging men and material -- Tom and Will and Joe and the rest of the 2nd Devons must wait to get off. It’s interminable, having to stay in the train when they could just as easily get off here, Tom overhears some of the men complaining, and he agrees. 

Even watching the spectacle outside is only distracting for a few minutes. The area is busy with frantic activity: men are loading things into lorries, soldiers are trying to stay out of the way, officers are shouting at everyone and everything, artillery is being moved while slowing everyone down. Horses neigh, whips crack, machinery screams. 

Across the way is a hospital. The marquee is blasted in half; the building behind it is half-burned. It looks like a bomb has been dropped on it, and with the way the ruin is still smoking, Tom bets it was recent. 

“So the Americans are here at last,” grumbles Private Corbyn, catching the attention of the carriage. “Well, at least they’ve sent us  _ some _ help.”

“What, you mean -- oh, the hospital?” Private Pickering replies.

“Yeah, see the sign?”

“It’s wrecked, mate, how can you read that?”

“Eh, there’s enough left to read,” Private Lester judges. 

The men fall into some good-natured bickering about what constitutes legibility and what constitutes poor eyesight. It relieves the tension in the carriage, at least. Joe gets up and goes to find the Captain, and returns after a while saying that the men ahead of them have almost finished and that they will be getting off soon. 

“In the meantime, I’ll be quick,” he adds. “We’ve got our orders to get to the Front and dig in. There should already be some trenchwork there, but not much -- we’re to expand and reinforce as much as we can. Our position is six miles to the east and we’ve got to get there as fast as possible.”

“Does that mean we get our own little lorries, Sir?” Pickering asks. They all already know the answer -- with this much frantic activity, any trucks available will be for moving material and anything else that can’t walk. 

“No,” Joe says cheerfully, to the groans of everyone in the carriage. “After that ride, we’ve figured you lot would love an opportunity to stretch your legs.”

A sleepless night, a restless train ride, the sounds of hard fighting ahead -- Tom still finds it amazing, how merry the men can be in such circumstances. But as Joe leaves to go talk to the carriages with the rest of the platoon, the men are ragging each other, already building themselves up for a good fight. Even Will is not unaffected, watching the lot of them with an air of quiet amusement. Tom supposes they will need it. 

Joe finds them again as the platoon is reorganising itself on the platform, just after disembarking. Already ahead of them they see A Company has formed up and are starting down the road, Captain Hallewell in front. They’ve a ways to go.

“We’re holding the Western Bank from a town called Eterpigny to the St. Christ bridge,” Joe tells Will in undertone once B Company has fallen into formation and started off. “We’ve got the 24th Infantry Brigade on our right flank and who knows who on our left. Our orders are to hold our positions at all cost.”

“If we’ve a river to help, we should be alright,” Will mutters back. “They’ve taken care of the bridges at least, haven’t they?”

“Some,” Joe says, looking a little grim. “We’re still waiting for the men of the 50th Division and what’s left of the 66th and 39th Divisions to straggle through. The bridges have supposedly been weakened, but should be ready to fall at a moment’s notice -- once the rest of our boys are back across the river.” 

Tom whistles. “They’re really cutting it close, aren’t they?” he asks. “How close do you think the Germans are if we’re having to move so quickly?”

“Close,” Joe answers flatly. “Close enough that we’re giving up a hell of a lot of ground in the hopes we can outrun them to a better position.”

Will bumps Joe, knocking up against his shoulder. “We’ll do what we can,” Will says. It would be more encouraging if he didn’t sound so resigned over it. “We’ll hold. If we’re planning on retiring anyway -- they shouldn’t have us holding for too long.”

~ * ~

_ March 24th - 25th, 1918 -- Briost, France _

Will is exhausted. The shelling has stopped, for the moment; he rubs his eyes and looks down the hasty trench system they’ve put together. The six-mile march left the men with less ready energy when they finally reached their positions at around three in the afternoon yesterday, and the battalion barely had any time to dig in or fortify before the last of the 50th Division’s rearguards had crossed the bridges at Eterpigny and St. Christ and demolition of those bridges were ordered an hour later. St. Christ crumbled into the river with no trouble, but word along the line was that the explosive charges laid at Eterpigny’s weren’t enough -- the bridge was still standing. It was not a good sign.

Nevertheless, the men had got to digging with proper haste -- haste that served them well, in the end. By five in the afternoon, the first signs of the Germans were visible from the opposite bank. The Bosche had been mounting attempts to cross the river all night long and more sustained assaults starting with dawn. 

It is now well past supper. Most of the men are taking advantage of the lull to doze against friendly shoulders or the colder trench walls. Will blinks and rubs his eyes again, to no avail -- he’s had nothing but catnaps since the train ride. He’s dead tired. 

“You might as well grab a wink, too,” Tom says from next to him. He is leaning against the trench wall, the same as Will. “After all of the shelling earlier today, they’re probably waiting on more ammunition. They only got to this position yesterday, they can’t be connected to the supply lines that fast -- so take advantage of the quiet and get a bit of shut-eye.”

“Wake me if anything happens, then,” Will says, and leans his head back, tipping his helmet over his eyes. He doesn’t even register the uncomfortable pressure of the steel lip on the end of his nose with how he can feel his bones aching for want of sleep.

And he does manage to get some rest, he must, but when the whistling shriek of shells and the thumps of explosion start up again and Will starts back to wakefulness, he’s still groggy and uncoordinated -- it can’t have been much sleep. But that whistling is alarmingly close, and at the sound he bolts upright --

\-- there is a tremendous roar. Will is sent flying and impacts into something before finding himself flat on his face in the dirt at the bottom of the trench. Thank God they’re not at Passchendaele, he thinks inanely, or it would be four inches’ worth of mud and the threat of suffocation instead of mucky earth. He starts to push himself back to his feet and something like a lightning bolt flattens him out again with the pain that streaks through him. He cannot hold back the gasp that tears from his lungs. 

Will pants into the ground, too surprised to do more than wheeze with the pain. He gathers his thoughts and -- moving slowly, carefully -- somehow manages to roll himself over so that he can blink at the sky. He ought to have known his luck would run out sometime. How many months has it been on the Front? He’s avoided more than scrapes and shallow shrapnel gouges for nearly a year, now. Nearly a year. Another few weeks and it  _ would _ have been a year.

Will tries to sit up again. This time, he screams and has to twist to the side on instinct as he retches up what’s left of supper. And then he’s stuck on his side, too dazed to even begin to think of moving again. 

Gentle hands roll him onto his back again. It’s Pickering. “You alright there, Sarge? I saw you get knocked down --” He stops, staring at Will’s belly with a look of absolute horror.

In this new position, Will can look down at the reason he can’t seem to get up without causing too much pain. He doesn’t need to pull apart his tunic to see the dark stain spreading through his shirt; he can tell it is there from the small hole sliced neatly through the jacket, a few inches below his ribs. For a horrible moment, he’s back in a farmyard, with embers on the breeze -- but this time, he’s the one on the ground. 

“No,” Tom says hollowly, beside him. Will looks at him; his friend is stricken, flickering madly. It must be reminding him of April 6th, too. 

“Cheer up,” Will says to him weakly. “I’m sure it’s just a little knock.”

“Put pressure on it,” Tom says frantically. “We have to stop the bleeding!”

That makes sense. Will fumbles for the field dressings in his kit and manages to get one out. Pickering makes a strangled noise and scrabbles in his own pockets for one of his, too.

“I’m alright, Pickering,” Will tries to reassure the Private, even though Will is really, really not. The stench of perforated bowels is unmistakable. Even if Will doesn’t bleed out, he will certainly die of infection within a day or two.

Will is dying. He is going to die. 

This thought repeats numbly in his head. It doesn’t make sense. Will simply -- does not accept it as reality, not even as Pickering springs into action, shouting for the Lieutenant and scooping at the field dressing Will is only barely able to get a grip on. The Private expertly applies pressure with both of them where it will most stop the blood. Will screams at the sudden increase in pain, lancing through his belly. 

There is a babble of voices. Lieutenant Blake arrives, but Will doesn’t see it with his eyes screwed shut; he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming any more. He doesn’t want to rattle the rest of the platoon, who have all still got to get through the rest of the fighting that is sure to come.

“What’s all this, then?” Joseph says. It is calm and offers certainty. Will could bless the man again and again; he doesn’t know how Joseph does it. 

When Will opens his eyes, though, he realises that isn’t the case. Joseph is clearly operating on routine: even in this dim twilight, he’s paler than Tom, who is crouching next to both of them. 

“Shrapnel to the gut, Sir,” Pickering tells Joseph, not letting up on the pressure. Will claws at the dirt and wheezes when the Private shifts his stance a little so he can turn to address Joseph properly -- every movement is sheer agony.

Joseph blinks. He looks at Pickering’s hands, then Will’s face; and even in the increasing haze of it all, Will sees the exact moment Joseph comes to the realisation that Will is not going to survive this. It’s an awful expression. Joseph tries to say something and can’t; he swallows convulsively.

“No,” Tom says again, frantic and pleading. “No, no, come on Will, you can’t do this. Please don’t do this. Will, your family -- they need you! You can’t -- you can’t -- come on, come on!”

He’s going to wind himself into a frenzy at this rate. “Tom, it’s fine,” Will gasps out, attention diverted. “Tom. It’ll be alright.”

Tom bats at the hand Will reaches out with. “No it isn’t!” he screams back. “Stop it! Just -- stop! I’m not the one who’s -- who’s --”

Joseph catches at Will’s hand and pulls it firmly forward, dragging Will’s attention back to the men around him. “Will, we’re going to try to get you to a casualty station,” he says firmly, eyes flicking between Will and Joseph’s screaming brother. “There may be something they can do --”

“That’s not going to happen and you know it,” Will chokes out. He squeezes Joseph’s hand. “Give me . . . a moment.” 

He closes his eyes and cudgels his brain into working. Joseph doesn’t try to get a word in while Will focuses on trying to manage thought and pain, thankfully. 

First -- Will pulls Tom into his tin; Tom’s hysterics are utterly justified, but neither he nor Joseph can handle them at the moment. Tom can take it out of him when they’re both before the Grim, anyhow. 

This leaves Will somewhat freer to think, then. He feels sick; he is going to die. He is going to die, and he knew it was only a matter of time, but still . . . 

Will has one last duty, at least. He grabs at Joseph’s uniform lapels, trying to tug him in close with his free hand. “Graveyard,” he spits out, in between the shallow breaths that don’t hurt nearly as much. “Get me . . . to a graveyard.”

Joseph doesn’t understand. He looks horrified at the thought. “You’re not dead yet,” he says, and he’s cracking now: this isn’t Lieutenant Blake who is speaking to Will, it’s Tom’s older brother Joe, Will’s last, best, living friend. The look on his face is ghastly, because he’s trying desperately to keep it together, for Will’s sake -- for the men’s sake -- 

Will hates seeing it, hates it, hates it so much. He regrets putting Joe in this position by being unlucky enough to get hit; and it’s unfair, it is  _ so _ unfair -- Joseph’s already lost his brother once, and now he’s losing him again. Will grapples it all back and pulls at Joe’s coat harder, trying to drag him in as close as he can manage until he’s able to speak into Joe’s ear, out of sight and (hopefully) out of the hearing of the men. (And he’s not sure how much volume he can manage when every breath feels like a scream.)

Joe resists, though, gripping both of Will’s wrists and trying to get him to lie still. “I’m not leaving you to die in a graveyard,” he insists. 

Will gives up trying to pull him in. He hasn’t the energy and -- well, it won’t matter soon enough, whether others know about his abilities or not. “I’ve one last duty,” Will argues. “I’m not leaving it for you to finish. Joseph -- Joe, I’m not making you carry Tom. I’m not making you carry -- me.” 

But Joseph’s face is settling into something stubborn, resolved. Will just knows Joseph is going to see this as his penance for not being a good enough Lieutenant or some such shite, and it breaks Will’s heart. Will begs, now, desperation bleeding into it. “No! Don’t you make me do that.  _ Please, _ Joe.” 

Joe looks like he’s going to argue further, but then his expression crumples into despair. He has to let go of one of Will’s hands to wipe his eyes, hard, and uses the opportunity to pull his face back into something approaching composure. He takes Will’s hand again and looks around at the men gathered around them -- Pickering, of course, and Farley, and one or two other lads as well. Beyond them, Will knows the rest of the men will be huddled in groups, watching the proceedings from a distance.

“Corporal Farley, find a stretcher,” Lieutenant Blake says, voice cracking. “Steal one if you have to.”

Farley nods tightly and disappears. Will hears a faint whine in the relative quiet -- the bombardment has started up again, even if it sounds far away -- as everyone waits for Joseph to speak. Will is startled to realise it’s his, an echo of the way the pain feels like it is increasing with every moment. It feels like there is just a slow building up of pressure beneath Pickering’s hands. It has nowhere to go and, by God, it  _ hurts. _

Joseph has to close his eyes and take several deep breaths before speaking again to Will. “I can’t go with you. I can’t leave the line,” he says. Despite Joe’s efforts at regaining control, there are streaks of wet that start up, rolling down from his eyes. “Farley . . . when Farley gets back, he and Pickering will take you.” 

Will could sob, hearing that. He can’t tell if it’s from relief or despair. It’ll kill Joe to send Will off alone -- and Will is going to die alone, alone, and it isn’t fair -- but Will can do his duty by Tom. Will can spare Joe that pain. 

“Thank you,” Will tells him. “Thank you, Joe, thank you --”

This is too much for Joseph. He lets go of Will’s hands and takes Will into his arms, as much as he can without disturbing Pickering, and holds Will tightly, as though it will keep him from slipping away. Will appreciates it, even as Joe roughly kisses his face and then hides his own, tucking it into Will’s shoulder, forehead brushing the trench floor. Will is in no position to offer comfort in return, but he does his best to cling back, anyway. 

Will is so scared. He does not mind that Joe does not let go for the long, long wait until Farley returns. 

Gentleness doesn’t help -- no matter how Joe tries, Will feels each movement as Joe does his best to let go without jostling Will too much so that he can talk to Farley. Whatever it is he says, Farley kicks up a fuss at the new orders -- Will can hear them arguing back and forth to one another while Will is moved onto the stretcher, mind hazing out of reality entirely from the pain. One voice is stiff and unyielding -- “and  _ leave him there,” _ Will hears Lieutenant Blake order -- while the other grows increasingly more frantic. Will cannot keep track of the flow of it. He hears Farley protest, clearly, “But the Aid Station!” before Will loses track of things again. 

But then the stretcher is lifted. Will sees that Pickering and Farley have taken their places, though Farley is still unhappy about it; Pickering just looks mournful. 

Joe clasps Will’s hand. “Tell Tom I’m sorry,” he says, thickly.

“Don’t die,” Will replies. “Or he’ll take it out of you himself.” 

Joseph chokes, nods. “Goodbye, Will,” he says, and lets go. With an effort, he shutters his expression; then he turns and walks down the line as Farley and Pickering start off. 

Will finds himself trapped, now, with only thoughts for company as the two men dodge traffic up and down the line. The bombardment has started again, sporadic, but terrifying nevertheless. The night is lit up with intermittent flashes and the high arc of flares. Will watches it until he can’t stand the thought that this will be the last thing he sees -- then he closes his eyes.

Will has been fighting for so long, he hasn’t wanted anything but for it to end. A cessation of living in this nightmare of boredom and terror, ceaseless anxiety, the endless weight of the dead -- Will knows he has thought about how relieving it would be to no longer face it. He knows that there have been times he would not have minded getting killed, if only to escape. It seems such cruelty to realise now that -- above all -- he wants to  _ live. _

When Will opens his eyes again, he sees Tom has slipped the confines of the tin and is keeping pace beside the stretcher. He seems lost.

Will nudges him a little to get his attention. “It’ll turn out alright, Tom,” Will whispers to his friend when Tom looks over to him.

Tom looks at him and shakes his head, and turns away sharply to hide his tears. “You’re supposed to make it through the war,” he replies tightly. “You’re supposed to get home safe, and be with -- with your wife and the girls --”

Will has to close his eyes again. It hurts too much. He wants to scream from the injustice of it, but even the thought of that is too exhausting. “I know,” he says instead. “I know, Tom. I know you promised that --”

“Sorry, Sarge, didn’t catch that,” Pickering says.

Will blinks, looking at Tom -- Tom, who looks uncharacteristically quiet and as close to despair as Will has ever seen. Tom shakes his head at Will -- he hasn’t anything more to say. “Nothing, Private,” Will says. “Just talking to myself.”

“Wait,” Tom says suddenly, stopping in his tracks. The stretcher starts to pass him by as his expression morphs from despair to some frantic calculation, and then -- desperation and . . . hope? “Wait. Will,” Tom repeats with rising excitement, and notices he’s well behind the stretcher now. He jogs to catch up. “Will -- Will, remember back in April? Remember your hand?”

Will blinks at that. His hand? . . . He looks at it.

“No, your other one -- Will, the one you struck on barbed wire!” Tom says, insistent and urgent.

Will raises his left hand and looks at that one instead. He sees the small scar on his palm, half-hidden by mud and blood and worse things. Will remembers how he got that scar. In a flash, he is blessed with a moment of unmistakable clarity; and then he is seized by a sudden delirious, desperate inspiration, and his breath comes short. He stares at Tom and Tom stares back, expression outright mad, giddy hope, matching the feeling that leaps in Will.

Will thinks, frantic. Will -- Will owes his children more than dying in a trench somewhere. He owes his wife more than a series of letters, written and never sent, bundled together with a medal. He owes his mother -- and Joseph -- and the men --

\-- and perhaps more than that, he wants to live. He wants to go home to his wife, he wants to watch his children grow; he wants to be there as Joe courts a woman, and get married, and be there to watch their children become friends with his own daughters. Will wants to see the Blakes’ cherry trees, to hold Ellie and kiss her once again, and  _ Will wants to live. _

And maybe there is a way. 

Will holds onto that thought, almost too terrified to examine it further. 

Briost is not much more than a village, with one tiny chapel and an equally tiny cemetery. With the battle on, it still takes them nearly half an hour to make their way to the chapel, which shelters some supplies. Will wonders inanely how they knew to find it; did Joe tell them? By the time they get there, though, the fighting seems to have died down again. 

They are fortunate that no one they pass really notices them. The chapel is several yards behind the front line. Getting to it necessitates Farley and Pickering hoisting Will up out of the trench and taking cover behind blasted buildings to get him into the graveyard. It is a process that knocks him senseless from the pain of it.

~ * ~

Will comes to some time later. He is on the ground, looking up at the sky. Pickering and Farley are huddled on either side of him, hidden from view in the lee of the cemetery walls. Tom is nowhere to be seen.

“What time is it?” Will asks, slurring a little. When neither of them answers, he tries to look at his watch. As it turns out, Pickering was dozing; the movement wakes him and prompts him to shush Will and admonish him to settle down and stop moving, for God’s sake. 

“It’s 11,” Farley answers, trying to soothe Will with a hand on his shoulder. It works. “It’s alright. We’re staying here with you.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Will says. “You should get back to the platoon --”

“We’re not leaving you, Sergeant,” Pickering says, voice uncharacteristically flat. “We’re staying with you until midnight, and then we’re taking you to the Aid Station.”

“Right,” Will says. He should . . . there is some reason why they shouldn’t stay for that. But he’s drifting. Maybe it’s the blood loss, but everything seems to slip out of his mind before he can articulate it.

Tom swims into view. “I’ll make sure you wake up in time to warn them,” he tells Will. “Joe told them not to stay in the churchyard, but they’re not too happy about that. You’ll have to order them, again.”

But as it turns out -- it doesn't matter. Tom has only just finished his sentence when, without warning, the world sinks, everything fading under pressure as though they have been plunged into the ocean. The Grim has come  _ early. _

Farley leaps to his feet and swears steadily, incredulously, with rising volume. Pickering makes a small noise like a cornered cat, but cuts himself off and freezes in place.

Will isn’t in the right position to see the Grim, but he can hear it. It wastes no time, leaping on Farley when Farley tries to raise his rifle; Farley yelps and goes quiet. Pickering stays frozen, making an aborted movement to get up and run before the Grim is grinning in his face, giving the poor Private a sloppy dog welcome. 

Then the Grim is there, looking down at Will. It is exactly as he remembers from when he was eleven -- wolf snout, pointed ears, shaggy coat, and eyes that whisper like the finest silk. Will feels tears prick in his eyes at the sense of familiarity seeing it brings: the remembrance of better times, and the comfort of having adventures that end with one safe, and with the security of knowing there is a warm bed to return home to. 

In Death’s presence, the pain from the wound eases; Will feels himself finally begin to relax.

“Got some ghosts for you,” Will says with less difficulty than he would have had a minute ago. He makes the effort and indicates the shrapnel hole in his side. “And mine.”

The Grim noses at the wound and whines low when Will gasps and winces away. It flops to the ground alongside Will and puts its head on its paws, watching him mournfully. 

“I know,” Will whispers. With some effort, he is able to reach out and pat its head, though the effort leaves him dizzy. Now is the time to ask, but Will -- Will is very tired, now. Will just wants to sleep.

“Oh no you don’t,” Tom says, strident. He appears, standing between the Grim and Will -- one of his boots goes through Will’s arm. “I see what you’re doing. Don’t make him sleep, you -- you --” Tom can’t seem to find the right words, or maybe he reconsiders what he was going to say in the first place, because he changes tack. “Will, you were going to ask it about your hand.”

“Oh God,” Will hears Pickering whisper. “Oh God Almighty, who is that?”

“Pickering,” Farley murmurs, keeping his tone even. “Shut up.”

The Grim is watching Tom intently, now. With its attention redirected, Will finds his head clearing a little. 

“Right,” Will says, and repeats it, trying to focus. The Grim’s gaze switches back to Will. “Right. This. You fixed my hand -- before. Is it too much to ask if you can do it for me now?”

The Grim cocks its head as though considering it. Then it gets up and sits, adopting a pose that -- somehow -- conveys great formality.

_ It is not too much to ask, _ says Death, not unkindly.  _ You have done thankless work in My service and eased Mine immeasurably.  _ It whines again, entirely doglike in how its ears flatten.  _ But what you ask is no simple thing. It will cost.  _

A bargain, then. The Grim is not a fairie -- but it does sometimes seem to be like a fairie. “Tom,” Will says, “move out of the way, please.”

Tom hesitates, but he moves -- he goes to stand next to where Pickering and Farley are huddled together, watching with trepidation.

“What is the price?” Will asks the Grim.

The dog considers this.  _ A lifetime for a life, _ it says at last.  _ Defer your passing for a century of mortal time. Continue in My service until then. _

Will closes his eyes. “Would I still be able to see my family? Wherever -- wherever they go when they die?”

_ Yes. But you will not be granted the rest they shall find until the end of your work. _

Will nods, understanding that whatever happens to his family, he would be busy doing -- whatever it was that Grims do. This is probably a terrible idea. Ellie will scream at him and throw things, likely, when he tells her; God knows how Joseph will take it. But . . . only a century? Only a century, and then he will never have to leave them again. And he has a chance -- at least that, and better than the certainty that this is the end -- to live out the rest of his life with them. 

Will nods again, making his decision. “Alright then,” he says to the Grim. “I will do it.”

The Grim whuffs, sounding a little unhappy, but its tail wags anyway. And then, before Will can prepare himself, the Grim turns to the wound and tears into it with a terrible snarl. Whatever blocked the pain until now disappears -- and Will screams, and screams, and screams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Hope you are all doing alright even as quarantine starts to ease up for some of us. 
> 
> First and foremost: an INCREDIBLE thank you to @eirianerisdar. She has been an absolute wealth of knowledge and patience and support -- without your medical knowledge, we would be at a total loss! She also provided her expert advice way back in WatD, when Joe was shot. Thank you a thousand times over -- we could not turn out anything remotely as good without your guidance!
> 
> Secondly -- shoutout to Pavuvu, she who is Greatest and Most Wonderful, for basically being the best everything ever. Without her, I can promise you all that this story would not be nearly this exciting.
> 
> Thirdly, thank YOU, wonderful readers! I don’t know how we have been so lucky but the fact that you come back each update is just miraculous to us! Your comments and love and support are boundlessly uplifting. As ever, please let us know how you're doing and what you think of this latest -- either here, or on tumblr @marbat and @lizofalltrades!
> 
> From this point on, chapters are likely to be shorter -- that is, I don’t think we’ll be hitting 20k monsters again. However, they will also be more regular. Our next interlude will be up within the week and the next plot chapter should be up not too long after that. In the meantime, if you need more to read -- we've added YET ANOTHER work to the series! It is LadyCharity's _[words over all](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24339385),_ the absolutely gorgeous fic of this series she published earlier this week <3 Also, scientistsinistral's _[take my whole life too](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23990692)_ updated JUST YESTERDAY -- go and check out the latest!
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. Is this a particular battle?
> 
> This is the second battle of the Somme, the first of the Spring Offensives. The Allies’ decision to retire to the western bank and fortify there, as well as the 2nd Devons’ part in that action, are as accurate as we can make them. We are not entirely sure if the 2nd Devons were placed right at Briost, but it is in the part of the line that the 23rd Infantry Brigade was tasked to defend, so . . . *jazz hands*
> 
> 2\. Is General Gough a character?
> 
> I have no idea. He is a real person, though! He is the one who made the decision to retire to the western bank of the Somme, which was a controversial decision. But that's also a lot more war stuff than any of our characters would really have the scope for . . . so we're not going to get into that :)


	6. nwl: Interlude II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _now we lie_ Interlude II: The correspondence of Sergeant William Schofield, dated March 26th - April 2nd, 1918.

_[Second attempt to write a letter. Handwriting is imprecise and the rows of text drop off near the end of the page despite the ruled lines printed on the paper. Some words are illegible.]_

March 26th, 1918

Joseph,

I am in the hospital. They keep giving me morphine and it is difficult to concentrate but I made them let me write to you. 

I was not awake after the churchyard. Tom told me that he had talked with Farley and Pickering on their way to take me to the Casualty Clearing Station afterwards and that he had told them to tell you about what happened. I know it is hard to believe so here is some proof they are not making it up.

Tom is very good at thinking on his feet. He saved my life, again (again). 

I will try to write later when it is not as hard. 

Will

_[Letter was set aside for a time when it could be rewritten. It was picked up by a nurse and posted by accident.]_

~ * ~

_[First draft. Handwriting is crisp, careful, and legible. The rows of the text follow the ruled lines printed on the paper.]_

March 30th, 1918

Dearest Ellie,

I know I made you promise not to write to me and swore so in return. I am not sorry to break our pact now, although you may not be happy with the reason why. I am in the hospital. I am alright. I will be here for a while, though; they haven’t told me how long, but it isn’t long enough to be sent home to recuperate for. 

We saw some action only a few days ago. It was during this that I -- well, I’ll spare you the details -- but I caught some shrapnel. It seemed more dire at the time than it turned out to be, and when next I’m home, I’ll do my best to explain it. 

I intend to continue writing letters such as we have agreed and will keep hold of them for now. Nevertheless, I think you ought to get at least a note to let you know I’m alright. If you want to send something similar in return, I ~~think I will be able to manage that as well~~ would welcome it. 

I have read all of your letters. I miss you ~~so much~~ all, dreadfully. 

Tom says hullo and sends his regards. He respectfully requests news about Callie and Tenny, and hopes you are all doing well at home.

Love,

Will

_[Letter was rewritten and posted shortly afterwards.]_

~ * ~

_[First draft. Handwriting is neat, but cramped to make it fit into the available space of the paper.]_

April 2nd, 1918

Joseph,

I am sorry for not writing sooner. One of the nurses believed she was being helpful when she took and sent the first letter I wrote while I slept; I’d addressed it and then decided that I should try rewriting it when my script didn’t wriggle around on the page as much. 

I have not received any return letters and I am not expecting them, though I am hoping you are all doing alright. I have heard that the fighting was very fierce after I was sent from the line -- there are two men from one of the other battalions in our brigade here, both of whom arrived a day after I did. One complains loudly about everything. The other is very quiet. From the both, I have been able to ascertain that our battalion was the one that came out in the best shape, and so I have reasonable hopes that I will not be receiving this letter returned to me with “recipient killed in action” scrawled across the envelope. Nevertheless -- please take care, and do not waste time replying to me if you are so pressed. 

I am told I will be recovered in “a few weeks’ time.” It is not enough time to be sent home to recuperate, though I am not allowed to walk very much, and I haven’t any idea how I would make it there if I tried to insist. The hospital is very dull. I’d say I wish you could visit, but then you’d also be subjected to the absolute absence of anything of interest. God knows it hasn’t done Tom any good -- he is like to go mad if he has to sit around watching the sun pass over the walls with me for another hour.

Now that I am enjoying greater lucidity, I think I can try to relate some of what happened to me, though the better part of the details will need to be shared in person. The short of it is -- the Grim and I came to an agreement. Already, I am aware of some of the repercussions of this bargain -- Tom and I will be happy to demonstrate for you when we are returned. I also have the strong sense that this situation will not be possible a second time. I do not suggest you attempt a similar arrangement. 

If you do have time and energy to spare -- how are F. and P. managing? They were insistent on remaining with me -- I did not have time to reinforce their orders otherwise before it happened. I was not able to talk to them afterwards, either, but Tom reports that they stayed with me until I was loaded onto the next evacuation run. 

Tom wishes me to tell you that you owe him five bob. He wouldn’t say why. If you two have a bet riding on me writing to my wife, I swear I will set her after you both. 

Will

_[This letter was addressed and sent shortly after completion.]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOODNESS GRACIOUS, YOU WERE EXCITED BY THAT LAST CHAPTER! Thank you to everyone who commented -- it is AMAZING what insight we gain into our own fic, reading about your reactions! We cannot stress it enough -- it is SO HELPFUL. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Many questions shall be uncovered in due time, dear readers -- and some that you haven't yet thought to ask shall also be answered ;)
> 
> The next chapter will be up within the week!!! I have FEELINGS about this coming chapter and one of those feelings is that we MUST SHARE THESE FEELINGS WITH YOU ALL. --That's our motivation, anyway! . . . okay, it's MY motivation. I think Vuvu just likes to cackle.
> 
> A brief note: I finally figured out what was bothering me so much about the second plot chapter (Chapter 3 of this fic) and went back and did some serious tweaking to most of the sections involving Joseph. Nothing really major -- I think I was just able to better articulate some of his motivations and so on. If you were feeling somewhat dissatisfied with that chapter, as I was, maybe try rereading it? It should be a little clearer, now.
> 
> As ever, cheers to the lovely Longfic Lads! You guys are the best -- we simply adore each and every one of you <3


	7. nwl: March 25th - April 10th, 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The German Spring Offensives continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super quick note, everyone!
> 
> We're sure you've noticed the title change. It's nothing big, and there's no real shift at all associated with it, it's just that -- in the middle of writing this chapter -- Vuvu and I realised that we probably should have split this fic up, right after Chapter 3 and before Chapter 4. But we didn't want to delete chapters and repost in a new fic, because we'd lose all your lovely comments :(
> 
> So . . . we just changed the title! _the guns below_ is the part of this fic about Will and Joseph going home and having to grapple with the challenges that brings, while _now we lie_ is the part of the fic where there are our boys and this is what they face in this, the worst of the fighting in the final year of the war. All chapters now have either "tgb:" or "nwl:" tagged at the beginning for clarity's sake.
> 
> (Also, there will probably be YET ANOTHER fic following the conclusion of _now we lie._ Sorry to disappoint :P)

_March 25th, 1918 -- Briost, France_

Pickering stumbles back up the line, following Farley in a daze and tripping over practically everything. The line is quiet for the moment, and as well it might be. It is nearly one in the morning.

He still can’t believe it. He can’t _believe_ it. But there’s -- God, there’s proof everywhere. The moon is nearly full, and generous with its light tonight, but Pickering can’t be bothered to pay attention to his feet, not with the dead men walking beside them, and crying on the ground, and sitting in other living soldiers and staring through the sky. He sees one man whose jaw has been torn off, along with most of his face, gurgling. It’s horrific.

Farley reaches back and gets a solid grip on Pickering’s collar, hauling him forward and past the spectre when Pickering finds he is lingering despite himself. “Come on,” Farley says. 

“They’re everywhere,” Pickering says, stumbling after him. It’s like Farley’s words break what hold Pickering has over his own control. “Corp’, how -- in the churchyard -- and _now --”_

Farley must hear him losing his mind, because he stops and takes a look around, and then pulls Pickering into a sort of niche in the trench wall. It is mercifully unoccupied. Farley drags Pickering around until he’s looking Farley in the face. 

“C’mon, Private,” Corporal Farley says, dead serious. “We are going to be alright. Get your head on straight. If being buried alive didn’t kill us, some --” and he does falter, a little, but then he carries it through. “-- some ghosts sure as hell aren’t going to do it. Got that?”

Pickering shudders. Even if that is true -- well, being buried alive only gave him nightmares. He doesn’t think waking up is going to pull him out of this one. “What do we do?” he whispers. “Farley -- what are we going to do?”

“Look,” Corporal Farley says, and damn him if he isn’t good at sounding so reasonable even while Pickering sees him go a little pale at the thought himself. “They’re awful. I’m not saying they aren’t, Pick’, I’m just saying -- you and me, we’ve been in this unit for over a year, and we’ve seen some awful things. We can do this. Yeah?”

Pickering shakes. Behind Farley, he can see another apparition wandering along the line -- it staggers along in a ghastly hop begging for help, stopping every so often to lean against the wall from the lack of its left leg. 

Farley smacks his helmet, hard, and forces Pickering to turn so that the only thing he can see is half the wall and all of Farley’s earnest face. Earnest, for once, instead of smug or swaggering or annoyed or --

“Come _on,_ Pickering!” Corporal Farley snaps, shaking him a little. “Stop. Take a breath, yeah? I’m here, you’re here, we aren’t dead -- that bloke can’t hurt us. Alright?”

And Pickering tries, he does -- but he can’t seem to resist the urge to look away, and his eyes turn inevitably back --

\-- right up until Farley mashes his face into the wall, at least, and leans up against him to keep him there. “Stare at the fucking wall then,” he growls in Pickering’s ear. “Ready? Breathe in -- in, keep going -- out. Again. In -- and out. Focus on that. See?”

It is a testament to how rattled Pickering is that this doesn’t produce any other reaction than a brief moment of clarity that cuts through his burgeoning panic. Even then, it’s not easy. But staring at the wall -- and for once this is a cleaner trench, not dug into a former battlefield -- well, that way, for a moment, Pickering can pretend that the screaming is coming from somewhere out on No-Man’s-Land; that’s not something he can help with. It’s not his business, and it’s certainly not from a ghost. 

It takes a good long while but Pickering feels it when his legs eventually stop wanting to give out. Farley’s weight helps ground him, pinning him in place against the wall; it is weirdly comforting. But that’s always been Farley’s way. 

“Right,” Pickering says at last. “Alright. Alright, I can get back to the platoon.” But he doesn’t pull away from the wall yet, even when Farley lets him loose. “What are we going to do, Farley?”

It’s the same question as before, but he means it differently. And fortunately, Farley understands what Pickering is actually saying is _what are we going to do when we get back to the Lieutenant?_

“I don’t know,” Farley says, quieter, more reluctant. “What do you think?”

“Christ, I don’t know,” Pickering says, shrugging helplessly. He turns just enough so he can see Farley’s face -- and the wall, nothing else. “I mean -- what about that spirit that -- that was --”

“--the one who claimed he was the Lieutenant’s brother?” Farley finishes, just as hushed as Pickering. He looks around them furtively and winces at something, looking away quickly. “I mean. _He_ said that Lieutenant Blake knew about this. So I guess we go and take it out of Lieutenant Blake.”

That is _not_ what Pickering was thinking. “What? Why?”

A dark look passes over Farley’s face. “Well, he sure as hell didn’t warn us, did he?”

“He ordered us not to be in the graveyard at midnight,” Pickering reminds him. “In fact, he expressly stated we were supposed to leave the Sarge in the graveyard and wait outside.”

“Well, sure,” Farley says. “But he should’ve known we weren’t going to actually _leave_ the Sarge!” He makes an impatient gesture. “Anyway. He knew what would happen and he bloody well could have warned us about it.” 

That is also Farley’s way. He didn’t get to being the senior Lance Corporal by being as underhanded and nice as Sergeant Schofield; he’s a pushy bastard, and always has been. While it has its uses, Pickering doesn’t think that it would be right for this, though.

“Maybe,” he says, because -- well, it is an awfully big thing to leave out. Stupendously, horrifically big thing. But. Farley was off nicking a stretcher -- he wasn’t the one who was trying to keep the Sergeant from bleeding out while the Lieutenant very nearly lost his mind over losing his closest friend (and not the kind of “closest friends” like Pickering and Farley were. _Genuinely_ his best friend). Pickering isn’t so sure what shape Lieutenant Blake will be in when they get back, and says as much.

Farley doesn’t say anything to that. He looks unhappy and like he can’t make up his mind whether or not to be angry. It’s his usual reaction but -- it’s also not. He and Sergeant Schofield didn’t always see eye to eye, but they respected each other, and everyone in 5th Platoon knew how much that meant to Farley.

“Hey, though,” Pickering tries. He bumps up against Farley, still carefully not looking past the Corporal into the trench. “We got the Sarge to the aid station, and they’re sending him back to be evacuated, right? He isn’t dead, and he’s not -- he isn’t dying anymore, either.” And what a terrible thing to say -- terrible, and great, and awful. God only knows -- well, God only knows. 

Farley kicks the wall viciously and then stands stiff, expelling his breath sharply. “Fine,” he says, rubbing at his face. “Fine. Let’s get back then, if you’re ready.”

Pickering honestly thinks he is -- and then they start heading down the line and he sees the ghosts. And it’s almost too much, but Farley reaches back and grabs his hand and that . . . that helps. Maybe it’s childish, but fuck. They’re in a bloody war, for God’s sake. He’s been killing children for months now and bloody hell, they talked to the Lieutenant’s bloody dead little brother not even an hour ago, and -- fuck. He has to keep it together.

Pickering does his best not to pay attention to the dead as they go, looking steadfastly at his feet -- and nothing else. When Farley stops, and Pickering at last looks up, he is surprised to see -- there are no apparitions, here, not in this part of the line. 

And this is their part of the line. He recognises the slumped forms, leaning against the trench walls and each other as they doze. They have made it back to 5th Platoon.

There is a dugout -- just the one; they didn’t have time enough to scrape out a second when they first got here, and they hadn’t had the energy since with the constant stream of attacks. Pickering expects that is where Lieutenant Blake is, but Farley shakes his head and points -- there’s one man sitting with his head in his hands in the far end of their trench. He looks to be the only one awake besides the guard at his post, closer to the dugout.

Lieutenant Blake doesn’t look up until Farley and Pickering stop and wait in the manner that is intended to convey respect when they don’t dare salute on the front line. If Pickering hadn’t been staring at dead men for the last hour, he’d say Lieutenant Blake was on his way to the grave with the emptiness in his expression. There is something terribly bleak about it.

“Sergeant Schofield has been taken to the casualty clearing station,” Farley says in an undertone meant to carry only a few feet at most. 

The Lieutenant does not react to that at first. He just looks at them, and then at the trench wall behind them. “Did you get him to the churchyard?” he asks, toneless.

Pickering twitches. Farley stamps on his foot. “We stayed with him until the bloody dog came,” he answers, not entirely managing to keep the fury out of his voice. “Your brother says hello.”

Lieutenant Blake _does_ react to that. His head whips around and the look he gives them is clearly startled, though it’s too dark to tell exactly what his expression is. 

“And you _could have warned us,_ Sir,” Farley snarls, finally out of patience. 

“Why the bloody hell did you think I ordered you to stay out of the graveyard?” Lieutenant Blake snaps. Despite his tone, he is twisting his hands all into knots.

Seeing that helps Pickering keep his head. Normally the tone would set Pickering’s back up, more, but he hears the horror beneath the ire and that also helps. So he elbows Farley sharply when Farley opens his mouth to reply and interjects in his most reasonable tone, “All due respect, Sir -- there wasn’t any way we’d just leave him to die in a graveyard alone.” He leaves off adding _and you know it,_ because that comes out clear all on its own.

Lieutenant Blake sucks in a breath as though to say something, and stops. He rubs his face and runs his hands through his hair the way he often does when he’s feeling overwhelmed. It’s one of the tells 5th Platoon has learnt to watch out for, if only because it means that Blake is usually at the point where he might actually lose his temper. But this time, he just stops with his hands clawing through his hair and leans forward until his elbows rest on his knees, and instead of any swearing, there is a sob that is wrenched out of him. He stifles it somehow so that it doesn’t carry, but it is audible to both Farley and Pickering where they are.

Pickering is bewildered, then fearful -- _what are they supposed to do_ \-- and then feels like a fool when he realises that of course; they haven’t actually told him, yet. “You bloody idiot,” Pickering hisses at Farley, and then turns to Lieutenant Blake. “Sir -- Sir. Sergeant Schofield isn’t dead, Sir. They’re evacuating him out soon if they haven’t done it already -- he’s going to be alright.”

“That’s a poor joke, Private,” the Lieutenant says, words cracking. He doesn’t even look up.

“It’s not a joke,” Farley says. His irritation has burned away as quickly as it came, and now he sounds a little apologetic. As well he should be. “Sorry, Sir -- we should have led with that. But the Sergeant is really going to be alright. He --” and he pauses and exchanges a look with Pickering, but Pickering doesn’t know how to explain it either and he just shrugs “-- he, er. The dog did something, and -- well, he’s still got a shrapnel wound, but it isn’t nearly as deep as it was.”

Lieutenant Blake shudders. Then -- “What?” he asks, voice rasping.

Were this not their commanding officer, Pickering -- well, he’d try for something reassuring, like putting a hand on Blake’s shoulder or something -- but -- oh, hell. It’s not like he hasn’t laid hands on Lieutenant Blake before, outside that pill-box in Ypres. And what is this if not another kind of wound that’s bleeding out? Pickering carefully reaches out and touches the Lieutenant’s shoulder, keeping it slow. Blake twitches a bit, but he also looks up, finally. 

“Your brother said something like this happened before?” Pickering ventures. All the expressions he’s reading off of the Lieutenant’s face look odd in the dark, but the moonlight catches on the wet streaking down Blake’s face and that helps, a little. “Something about -- an infected hand, and the Grim killing the infection before it could kill the Sergeant?”

Either this makes no sense to the Lieutenant or he hasn’t quite heard Pickering, because his expression doesn’t change. It’s Farley’s turn to shrug when Pickering trails off, forgetting the finer points of that particular bit of information. Lieutenant Blake’s brother was a talkative chap, and he’d rattled through a hell of a lot of things in between muttering encouragement to the Sergeant on the way to the casualty clearing station.

“It was last April, maybe?” Farley says, inflection making it more of a question -- he looks at Pickering for confirmation. “I mean. I remember he was bandaged up when he first billeted with us.”

“I didn’t get sent here until May,” Pickering says.

Blake moves at last, scrubbing his face hard. “Right,” he says. But he doesn’t say anything after that. To Pickering, he looks like a man who’s simply had to confront too much, too fast. It is clear that this isn’t something the Lieutenant is processing, exactly. 

From the look Farley shoots him, it’s plain to him, too. “Sir, why don’t you get some rest at least,” Farley says, tone gentling in that way he’s only mastered in the last few months. “Just -- the Sergeant is going to be alright, and we can deal with everything else in the morning.” Pickering agrees -- talking to the Lieutenant about the ghosts now is just. It’d be too much. 

“Right,” Lieutenant Blake says again. “. . . Thank you, Farley -- Pickering.”

It’s a dismissal. Pickering feels the weight of his relief as a tangible thing as they both echo “Sir” and move away. They have done all they can at the moment, and now it’s time for _them_ to get some sleep, too. But when he looks back at the Lieutenant, Blake has his head in his hands again -- and somehow, it doesn’t feel like they did nearly enough. No matter what the morrow will bring.

~ * ~

_March 25th -- Rouen, France_

Tom can’t seem to stop shivering. 

It started up during the hospital evacuation in the middle of the night. He hadn’t noticed it at first, since the lorry wasn’t the smoothest ride -- the roads are all terrible, it seems -- and even during the train ride, he had been too preoccupied with everything else going on; but now, standing next to the cot they’ve got Will in, it’s excruciatingly obvious. 

Tom looks at his friend and swallows, hard. It’s, just. That was _too close._ And it doesn’t even feel like a victory of any kind, because -- because bargains with fairies are always bad in the old stories, or at least, all the ones he’s heard, and the Grim isn’t a fairy, but there’s something about the phrasing that it used -- and maybe Tom’s overthinking it, maybe Will understood it better but --

\-- but all Will is, right now, is lying pale and still in a hospital ward, filled with men who are either quietly drugged into sleep or restlessly stirring because whatever they’re feeling is too much for whatever dose they’ve been given. Maybe it’s the cot, or the brown scratchy blanket, but Tom’s friend looks bleached of color, that disturbing white-blue blanche of a water-logged corpse, and -- it makes Tom feel sick. He wants to throw up. 

He breathes harshly, trying not to cry, and fists his hands so that maybe he’ll stop shaking. He can do this. He can keep it together. It’s not even that Tom almost passed for good, it’s just -- Will, Will shouldn’t have to, Will has done so much already and --

Tom snarls to cover the sob and wipes furiously at his face. He can’t stop shivering and now he can’t stop crying either -- bloody hell. He sits on the floor with a thump, resting his head against the edge of the cot. He might as well let it out if it’s determined to bloody well come out. 

Tom doesn’t know how long he sits there in this state, but it must be a while. By the time it seems to finish -- and he’s not shivering so much anymore, just trembling finely every so often -- he’s as close to exhausted as he’s ever felt when he hasn’t been worn thin by distance from Will. He almost feels like he’s alive again, it’s so similar to what he experienced after a hard crying jag before he died.

Outside, it is a beautifully sunny day. Some of the men at the other end of the room have started chatting, voices low. It is obvious they’ve been here for a couple of days already; they are anticipating lunch. From the clattering of cutlery and the bustle outside the ward, it is clear a meal is soon to come.

Tom gets back up, scrubbing his face and taking in huge breaths to try to screw his head back on. Will still looks like he’s dead, but Tom sees how his chest rises and falls beneath the blanket; Will has made it through the journey here and hasn’t died yet. Will is still alive.

Despite himself, Tom reaches out. He’s gotten out of the habit, since it never works the way his brain tells him it ought to, but -- he just needs to try anyway, to touch his friend and make sure he’s real. He hovers his hand over the lines of pain on Will’s forehead, visible despite the hefty dose of morphine they’d given him. Tom thinks the reason for it must be that, whatever the Grim had done, it hadn’t really healed everything -- just taking away whatever would have killed Will. Like the infection. He tries smoothing the furrows away, wishing he could dry the sweat that plasters Will’s fringe to his forehead. The curlicues of Will’s hair follow the path of Tom’s fingers, sweeping to the side, and for a moment, Tom almost thinks he feels the warmth of his friend’s body.

Will’s face scrunches into a frown and he stirs, twitching away from Tom’s hand.

Tom stares. It’s suddenly impossible to breathe.

But even after he blinks twice and looks again, Will’s fringe is still there, still oddly swept to one side as though someone had smoothed it there -- 

Tom tries it again -- and under his fingers, Will’s hair _moves._

“Oh, Christ,” Tom whispers, and sits back down on the ground, hard.

~ * ~

_March 25th -- Briost, France_

It seems as though Joseph blinks only once or twice after Farley and Pickering make it back, and then the sun is streaking across the sky. He barely registers the way the light of the new day shifts from deep early-morning blue to gloaming purple to rosy dawn. 

With the sun, the Germans attack. 5th Platoon scrambles to wakefulness and fights, beating them back. Joseph snaps up any hint of a ghost that shows and stuffs them in his buttons, his patches, his pockets -- he doesn’t even bother to see if they are British or German, he just wants to get them out of the way. 

The line grows quiet again. The sun is well up by now, and breakfast should be arriving soon, but there is no way to know. The past few days the kitchen staff have been bloody awful about getting their meals to them in a timely manner.

With the attack over, for the moment, everyone goes back to the weary sort of half-asleep awareness they’ve been forced to use for the past two days. The hours between Farley and Pickering’s return and this morning’s attack was probably the lengthiest span of time _without_ an attack since they joined the line -- and it’s not enough, not nearly enough, for any sort of real rest.

Some of the men amble by him, either on their own or in pairs. Each exchanges a few words with Joseph, most just saying “Good morning, Sir” and waiting for his response before nodding and moving on. In between the brief exchanges, Joseph wonders vaguely if more rest is what he needs. Time isn’t behaving right, and neither is the world; everything is very distant. Maybe he hasn’t been sleeping enough. 

Breakfast comes, cold -- as usual. They don’t even wait for Private Kimberley to take over with the primus stove. They’re too hungry and too tired. Joseph eats his portion mechanically, tasting nothing, washing it down with an equally tasteless measure from his flask. 

Another attack, this time directed more towards the part of the line to their right. They only need to keep a wary eye out and take potshots at any stragglers who wind up in front of their post. Joseph would swear he’s under water for the entire thing, as far removed as he feels from what is going on.

It’s as the fighting breaks off and dies away again that something finally catches his attention -- Pickering. The man is huddled, shivering, looking steadfastly at the ground or his hands, whispering something. Joseph frowns; there is something wrong. He goes over to the Private, whose words are audible only when Joseph is right before him. “. . . thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world . . .”

Joseph starts with the usual, resting his hand on Pickering’s elbow. Pickering jumps. He hadn’t noticed Joseph coming up to him. “Sorry Sir, I didn’t see you, Sir,” the Private stammers. Under Joseph’s hand, he can feel the man quivering. “Was there something you needed, Sir?”

“What’s wrong?” Joseph asks bluntly. 

“What? Nothing. Nothing, no Sir, I’m just fine --”

“Oi,” says Farley behind them. They both turn, Pickering twitching even harder this time -- but he’s addressing some of the men closest to Pickering instead of them. “You lot -- scoot that way. I need a word with the Lieutenant.”

“Piss off,” Private Merton grumbles, but quietly, and he’s already moving with the others, so Farley ignores it.

“It’s the bloody ghosts,” Farley says without preamble as soon as he judges the men a safe enough distance away. 

Joseph startles: Farley’s tone is harsh, and not the tone one uses towards a superior officer. He looks at the Corporal and sees that Farley has pulled on his usual mask, the one where he hides his own fears under brashness.

Ah -- of course. Joseph deliberately skims over the remembrance of how they have both come to see ghosts, because when he thinks of that night his hands start to shake, and -- actually, wait. He pulls out his flask and takes a swig. There; that stops his hands. He offers it to the both of them.

“Go ahead,” he says when they both stare. “It’ll help settle your nerves a bit.”

Pickering takes it tentatively. Farley looks like he wants simultaneously to accept the drink and spit in it. Joseph rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs.

“Right,” he starts. He starts to think back -- how did Will prepare him for this? -- his mind stutters to a halt. Joseph forces himself to take a deep breath and unlock his frozen jaw. “Right. You both saw the Grim at the graveyard?”

“You mean a Grim Reaper? We didn't see anything like that,” Pickering starts, making an effort. He’s had one slug from the flask that set him to coughing a bit before he passed it off to Farley. It seems to have done the trick, though, for the moment.

Farley kicks him lightly. “It’s the dog, isn’t it,” he says, as though it should be an obvious deduction. He hands back Joseph’s flask. 

Joseph hefts it a moment and drains the rest of it. He’ll need it. “Yes,” he says. “That’s Death.”

“That’s Death,” Farley echoes, tone flat. Pickering shivers and makes the sign of the cross.

Joseph shrugs. “Don’t ask me to explain it. Sergeant Schofield --” his brain stutters to a stop and he swallows. “-- he’s the expert,” he finishes, after a moment. 

“But _you_ knew,” Farley hisses. “And you sent us anyway?”

“Yes,” Joseph says, and hardens his own voice. “And ordered you to leave him there, if I recall, for this exact reason.” 

Farley opens his mouth to argue, takes a second look at Joseph’s face, and shuts it again. A muscle tics in his jaw.

“You can call the ghosts to you,” Joseph says. He tucks his empty flask into his pocket with hands that are starting to shake, again. Bloody hell. “Put them in things. I’ve got a load in my pockets and buttons right now. If they are unnerving you, that will get them out of sight.” 

“Why would we collect them?” Farley demands. “Why are _you_ collecting them?”

“Because Sergeant Schofield was the Devons’ deadman,” Joseph says, and tries not to choke on the past tense. He needs to put this into terms that Farley could understand, and while the man has trouble working for authorities, he does understand responsibility to the men serving under him. “And deadmen make sure that _all_ of our men get back home. One way or another.”

“How . . . how do we -- put them in things?” Pickering asks, shakily. He’s still scared-white pale, but he’s tracking the conversation, at the least.

Joseph shrugs. “It’s like . . .” he trails off, thinking of what they could feasibly relate to. Pickering’s a country boy, Farley’s a miller’s son somewhere up north -- “It’s like fishing. The ghost is a fish and your intention is the line. You sort of latch your mind on them, and _think_ them to you. Then you just . . . reel them into something,” Joseph says. 

Farley is frowning thoughtfully now; Pickering nods slowly. Joseph sees the light of comprehension in their eyes. 

“You have to be careful not to lose whatever you put them into,” he cautions the both of them. “Clothes are pretty good for that sort of thing. Badges, buttons . . .” Joseph thinks for a second, doing his best not to get derailed by his competing desires to either give into grief or rage against his circumstances. He needs another drink. “Threads, jewelry, wallets, the pouches of your kit. Whatever’s easiest.”

A distant machine-gun chatters to life. A series of explosions and the whistling of shells start up again. Across the river, there is movement. Joseph stifles his dismay; he must put on a good face for the men or it’ll be even harder for them to fight as they should.

“I know it's hard,” Joseph says, catching each of their eyes with his own for one long moment as the dirt settles and that round of bombardment fades. “It wasn't your choice, and I’m sorry that it happened to you. My intention was --” he falters, and tries again. “It was --”

His throat closes up around what he tries to say. Pickering stops him with a hand on Joseph’s wrist, shaking his head. “We know,” he says.

Joseph wipes his face. He hopes it isn’t raining because Christ, they need more mud about as much as they need more Germans. “It happened, and you have to live with it,” he says, forging ahead. “You just have to do you best.”

“Sir!” the sentry -- Sandringham -- shouts. “There’s movement in front of us, Sir!”

“We’d best get back to work,” Joseph says and grimaces at the bitterness in his own tone. He takes five precious seconds to close his eyes and take a deep breath; and then he gets up and starts going down the line.

~ * ~

_March 27th, 1918 -- southwest of Proyart, France_

Colonel Hepburn is lucky that all the Captains were already meeting, Benjamin thinks later; they were figuring out how best to array themselves with the losses they’d taken in the companies so far when the Colonel ducks into the half-buried cellar they have convened in. He doesn’t wait for them to startle up and salute before he’s waving them to sit back down. 

“We just got the call,” he says without preamble. “The General is pulling us out of reserve and loaning us to the XIX Corps for a quick counterattack. The Hun have reached Harbonnières south of here and are threatening to break through the line.”

Benjamin would love to swear, but that of course isn’t done. 

“Bloody hell, they’re running us ragged. Damned sons of bitches,” Hallewell snarls. With the circles under his eyes and the half-grown beard he’s had no time to shave after two nights and a day of torturous retreat, the man, in more ways than one, reflects what they’re all thinking. Thank God for Jack Hallewell; Benjamin could kiss him.

Colonel Hepburn is entirely unperturbed. “They aren’t expecting us,” he continues. “It should be a nice opportunity to roll the buggers right back to their side of the line.”

“Right,” Lieutenant Blythe says. He’s the acting Captain for D Company -- Captain Manley was sent off the line with a hole in his hip two days ago, and no word on his return or any replacement. 

“Anything else, Sir?” Benjamin feels compelled to ask. Otherwise, he’s going to get the hell out of there to round up his Lieutenants.

“Major Boden will be in command. You’re leaving in thirty minutes,” Colonel Hepburn says. He nods crisply to everyone. “Captain Richards? A quick word, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Benjamin says, halfway to his feet. “Anything I can do for you, Sir?”

“I’ve been looking for Sergeant Schofield,” says the Colonel, “but it seems he’s disappeared. I don’t suppose you know what’s happened to him?” 

“Sergeant Schofield, Sir?” Benjamin repeats blankly. Why on earth . . . Well, it’s no business of his. “I believe he was killed a few days ago, Sir. Shrapnel wound.”

Colonel Hepburn’s mouth presses into a flat line. “I see. Unfortunate turn of events, then.”

“Yes, Sir,” Benjamin replies, still rather confused, but he keeps a polite face on. “Lieutenant Blake is keeping the men going just fine, though; I believe one of the Lance Corporals has helped pick up the slack well enough.”

“Excellent,” the Colonel says. “That will be all, Richards, thank you.”

Dismissed, Benjamin makes for B Company. There’s Lieutenant Langley, whom he signals, and there’s Sergeant Jones -- acting Lieutenant for 6th Platoon; Perry is missing, presumed dead -- Lieutenant Clive, yes, good . . . 

Lieutenant Blake hears he’s wanted before Benjamin finds him, and he emerges from the bustle of the men waving one arm. He’s limping, Benjamin sees, and frowns; he thought Blake hadn’t been hurt. No bandages, no blood -- hmm. That leg wound from last summer couldn’t be troubling him again, could it?

But there’s no time to pry. They have their orders. “We’re moving out,” Benjamin tells them. “Get the men in formation. We have a fast march to make -- we’re counterattacking at Harbonnières . . .”

~ * ~

_March 27th, 1918 -- Rouen, France_

Today, Will wakes up for longer than just being fed soup or helped to a bedpan or hysterically demanding paper to write with. They also gave him a slightly smaller dose of morphine -- maybe that helped. 

“Tom?” Will rasps early in the morning. It’s before dawn. “Joe?”

But he’s called out in his sleep before -- so have the other men in the ward. Tom thinks little of it at first. Then he is brought out of the reverie of boredom that anxious waiting so often reduces one to by the sounds of Will starting to move restlessly. Tom stands up quickly; Will, he sees, is trying to get up, despite the way it obviously pains him. 

“Right here! I’m right here,” Tom says, hastily. He starts to reach out and draws back, fearful it won’t work this time -- but Tom is no coward; he grits his teeth. He can deal with the disappointment later if it isn’t real. Tom stiffens his spine and goes through with it, placing his hands on Will’s shoulders and gently pushing Will back down.

His knees feel like they want to give out under him when his hands _don’t_ go through his friend. 

Will doesn’t notice anything amiss. He goes with it, relaxing back onto the cot, his expression shifting from fearfulness to relief at Tom’s reassurance. He catches Tom’s sleeve around his elbow and clings to it. “Thank God,” Will says. “You’re still here. Thank God.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Tom assures his friend. Tom feels an odd sense of vertigo, in danger of drifting away; but Will is holding onto him firmly. Will’s hand is so warm, even through the folds of Tom’s tunic. Damn it, Tom feels like crying all over again.

Will is lucid today and his eyes are focusing properly. He catches Tom’s distress. “What happened?” he asks, relief dissipating in an instant. His grip tightens on Tom’s elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Tom says quickly, trying to ignore it. “Nothing. No, it’s not the battalion,” he adds, assuming that Will thought Tom heard some terrible news or something. “It’s the 27th. You’ve been mostly asleep for two days.” 

Will blinks at that. “Really?”

Tom nods. “Budge over, I’ll sit next to you,” he says. He’s on the other side of Will, so even if he does bump up against his friend, it shouldn’t put any pressure on the wound.

Will snorts and does just that, letting go and gingerly inching his way to the side of the cot. Tom sits, carefully. He wonders how long it’ll take for Will to notice. He doesn’t want to bring it up himself -- Tom’s half-convinced he’s dreaming he can touch someone living again, and he doesn’t want to lose it yet.

Will is still caught up on having been chasing rabbits for two days. “Wait,” he says, tone gaining urgency again. “I need to write to Joseph --”

“You wrote to him yesterday,” Tom interrupts. “One of the nurses picked it up and added it to the post after you fell asleep again.”

“I wasn’t finished,” Will protests. “I needed to rewrite it --”

“It’s been sent already, so there’s nothing to be done about it,” Tom tells him in no uncertain terms. “You need to rest, as much as you can. They say you’re healing well, and you’ve been mostly asleep for two days, but still -- no, don’t you do that!”

Because Will, in an uncharacteristic show of brainlessness, is trying to get up again. “What are you even looking for?” Tom demands. This time he grabs Will’s shoulder and pins him down, leaning his weight into it. He’d be vastly more thrilled at more proof he’s not dreaming if Will weren’t being _an absolute bloody idiot._ “There’s paper and a pen _right here,_ no need to go buggering off, damn it!” 

Will blows out a frustrated lungful of air. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“Why didn’t you _ask?”_

They have a brief standoff, trading mutual glares. 

“Oi,” calls someone, irritated, from the other side of the ward. The standoff breaks -- they both look over. “Keep your voice down, mate!”

Will winces, reminded that they are indeed surrounded by others -- even if most of them aren’t awake. “Sorry,” he calls back.

Tom sighs. “Look,” he says. “Can you just -- stay where you are and relax? A bit? You nearly _died,_ Will.” And he has to look away quickly and pretend he’s brushing dirt or something off his face, because that memory is just too awful --

\-- _lying in the dirt, looking at the sky wondering_ how did I get here? _Embers swirling --_

\-- “Hey,” Will says, quieter. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s alright.”

“Yeah,” Tom says, looking at the floor. Cracked tile, stained -- he didn’t need three guesses to figure out with what. “I know.”

Will fidgets, shifting his position; he brushes up against Tom where Tom is sitting in the process and stills.

“Tom,” he says, voice strangled. When Tom turns around to look, he sees Will staring at where Tom is sitting, eyes huge. “Did -- are you --”

“Whatever bargain you made sure did a number on you,” Tom says, smiling despite himself. It’s not just him! --And he hasn’t seen Will at such a loss for a while. Tom holds out his hand, palm up. “Look -- see? Try touching it.”

Will taps it tentatively. Lightly, first; then, when his fingers don’t pass straight through, he tries a second time, harder. “Good Lord,” he says, amazed. “And -- of course! You pushed me down just a while ago --”

Tom grins at him. “I moved some of your hair by accident when we first got here,” he says, pointing to Will’s forehead. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to notice!” 

“Huh,” Will says, bemused, taking Tom’s hand. “You feel all cold.”

Tom shrugs. “Still dead, so I guess that’s why.”

Will lets go. He rubs his face with both hands. “Huh,” he says again. He doesn’t seem rattled, precisely, but he does seem a little dazed -- and Tom curses under his breath. It’s still only the third day after Will nearly _died._ This is probably too much all at once.

“Hey,” Tom says briskly, changing the topic. Will probably needs time to think about it. “So let me tell you what happened after you passed out again . . .”

~ * ~

_April 3rd, 1918 -- Cavillon, France_

Off the line at last. Out for a spot of rest, the Brass called it; for the men of 5th Platoon, it turns out to be exactly that. Without an actual battle right in front of him, Lieutenant Blake seemed like a puppet with cut strings; he outright told the lot of them to take the day off and not get caught doing whatever the hell they did after the morning assembly and breakfast before disappearing.

As for himself, Pickering thinks he spent the time profitably. But he also spent most of the day pretending to sleep. There weren’t any ghosts where they were billeted, but there were plenty of others following men from other units.

He’s just now coming back from scrounging a quick supper. He missed getting out with someone else -- Farley’s been out all day, and no one has been in since three in the afternoon. As he returns now, though, Pickering sees that in his absence a group of the others came back and are laughing in the corner. Farley’s there, along with the other long-running members of the platoon: Kimberley and Brandt, and Campbell and Tyndall and Lester. Corbyn, Hunt, and Watts, who were all transferred into the unit after Ypres, round out the company. They’re all gathered around a few candles, watching Campbell and Tyndall and Hunt play something with cards.

Well, and so long as they’re in here and not going out -- it’s easy to join them. Pickering waves and comes over, enduring the back-pats of greeting without complaint, and drags an unused crate closer for a seat. With the companionship, he finds it in him to smile for the first time in days, even as the chatter pointedly digs for information about what happened to the Sergeant.

Pickering freezes up when Hunt asks, “So come on, Pick’, we know there’s more to it. Coleman saw you come back and talk to Blake.” 

Pickering and Farley have been telling everyone the same thing -- that the Sergeant is alive, and it wasn’t that bad. But no one seems to believe it -- and how could he and Farley even explain it? Pickering wonders hysterically. 

Fortunately, Farley is prepared. He cuffs Hunt, hard. “We already told you we took him to the Aid Station,” he says to the Private, scowling. “We’ve been saying that for a week now. You calling us liars?”

“Fuckin’ hell, Farley, ow,” Hunt complains, but that ends that train of conversation. Pickering breathes again and shoots a grateful look in Farley’s direction.

Three more rounds of cards and the deck gets put away. Tyndall produces a bottle of rum, which Lester matches -- those two have a nose keen for any contraband, and no compunction about getting it. Bless them both. Pickering takes one gulp and feels it burn right down to his belly and through his brain, and the relaxation it grants him is the first easing of his nerves he’s had in a month. Pickering eyes the bottle with new respect. He’s never much been one for drinking, but he’ll be damned if it isn’t helping him now.

With the rum, the chatter turns from gossip to story-telling. And with rum, it gets racy -- right up until Watts starts moaning about his girl back home instead of telling them about the times he’s gotten in on some action, and the mood turns restless. 

“You want to hear a story?” Farley asks abruptly, cutting through Lester ragging Watts. “I’ve got a story -- a ghost story.”

It’s the way he says it that gets their attention. It’s flat, the same sort of flatness they use when omitting the details of how someone died after they’ve watched it, and there’s a flavour of fear to it that -- frankly -- does not suit Farley, not in the slightest. 

Pickering swallows. He already knows where Farley’s going with this. He should probably stop him. But -- well, maybe Pickering needs to hear it, too.

“You’ve been talking nonstop about what Pick’ and me saw in the graveyard,” Farley says, voice lowering. He looks around the space; it’s just them and the candle, no one else close by. Pickering watches as Hunt perks up, raveningly curious; the others lean in avidly. 

“Well first -- first it was like jumping in a river. You know? One minute we’re sitting there. Sarge is lying on the stretcher, out of it. Me ‘n Pick’ -- we’re wondering if we should just ignore Blake’s orders and go straight to the aid station. And then -- we’re in a river, water’s closing over our heads, and this river is ten feet deep and we’re at the bottom of it.”

Despite himself, Pickering shivers. There’s something about hearing it so plainly worded that really brings it home. For a minute, he forgets he needs air; he has to remember that he’s above water and has to breathe. 

Farley catches his eye once Pickering’s managed to get himself under control. Pickering nods minutely; say it all now, take it back later.

“And then a wolf appears,” Farley continues, low, and convincingly sober. “A great black one. It came out of nowhere. I get up like this -- yeah? And it fucking knocks me down, snarls in my face --”

“--it didn’t snarl, it licked you silly,” Pickering interrupts. The others look at him, and he flushes. “Fine, sorry. Go on, then.”

 _“Snarls in my face,”_ Farley repeats. “And then it goes after Pick’. Gets him up against the wall and goes for him, too. And then it turns to Sarge.”

If the others weren’t paying attention before, they are now. They’re as still as anyone who is desperately hanging on every word and trying to seem as though they aren’t. Pickering sees Kimberley and Tyndall swallow, fighting back -- oh, grief, probably. They were some of the ones who didn’t believe it when Farley insisted Sergeant Schofield was still alive.

Farley reaches over to Corbyn and grabs the bottle of rum they’ve all been sharing. He takes a huge gulp before continuing. Pickering thinks it’s just so Farley has a plausible reason for wiping away the wet gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Sarge says hello to it. Says he’s got some ghosts for it -- and his. And the wolf whines like -- like --”

“-- like it was dying,” Pickering says, harshly. “Like it’d been ripped open and was waiting to die.”

Farley hands him the bottle in the awkward silence this creates. Pickering takes it and drinks, fighting to keep his hands steady, while Farley picks up the narrative again. 

“Sarge pats its head, like it’s just any old dog. And he’s relaxing, too, and I swear, we’re watching him pass on right in front of us, but then there’s this _kid_ who shows up.”

“You’re bluffing,” Campbell says. He plays it as disbelief, but there is real dismay in his voice. He’s got four younger sisters and one little brother -- and he hates hearing about children in nasty situations. “Really? A child?”

“Not much older than you, Campbell, he couldn’t’ve been more than 19. He had the same sort of patches as Sergeant Schofield did, back last April. Now shut up,” Farley tells him rudely. “So this kid shows up and he shouts at the wolf. Tells it not to make the Sarge sleep. Says ‘Will’ -- Sarge’s name is William, remember? -- ‘Will, you were going to ask it a question.’ And Sarge makes a deal with this wolf.”

Farley pauses. No one says anything. Pickering passes the bottle to Brandt, who looks like he needs it the most. 

“Now, we didn’t hear the details. It mostly looked like the Sarge was just -- talking to this wolf, but the wolf wasn’t saying anything back,” Farley admits. His tone -- originally menacing enough -- is devolving into something more ragged and uncontrolled. “But Sarge asks it some questions and listens and then says ‘I will do it.’ And the wolf fucking wags its tail, as happy as can be, and then he rips into the Sarge. Savages him up, real bad.”

Pickering kicks Brandt to get his attention and nods to the bottle, pointing at Farley. Brandt hands it over hastily. Farley just looks at it, face twisting up something awful. 

“And that’s it,” Pickering says, loudly, redirecting everyone’s attention. “That’s it! The wolf went away and what d’you know? Turns out the Sarge wasn’t hit as badly as we thought.”

Farley, in the act of drinking, chokes and slams the bottle back down. “Hey! That’s a shit way of ending it, what’re you doing?”

His reaction seems to loosen the grip of the tale on everyone in the circle. The tension breaks; the others all sag with relief.

“Ending it,” Pickering retorts, feeling his skin creep as the memory of that night wafts down his spine. “You’ve fooled ‘em all already, give them a break.”

Farley stares at him, entirely unamused. “Fine,” he says after a moment, obviously angry. “Fine. I’m for bed. Fuckin’ night.”

He gets up and stalks off, throwing himself into his bunk.

“Pass me the bottle,” Pickering says into the silence of Farley’s departure.

“Was that true?” Tyndall mutters to him as he swallows. 

“Of course not,” Pickering says easily. He knows they don’t believe him; it’d be impossible to, after how Farley reacted. He doesn’t care. Just hearing it said out loud is enough for him, and with Pickering saying it’s just a story, they’ll either have to argue with him -- about the impossible -- or agree.

He looks at them and thinks better of it. Campbell is ashen. Brandt and Kimberly look like they’re going to vomit. “Hey,” Pickering says. He firms up his voice the way Lieutenant Blake does when he’s talking someone out of a fit. “Hey, c’mon. Don’t let Farley get you down. Sarge made it to the aid post and we watched him get evacuated ourselves -- you know they don’t do that unless there’s a good chance they’ll live.”

It’s not nearly enough, but the repetition of what he and Farley have been telling them -- well, it does help smooth things over. For the moment. Slowly, the others start up again. In ten minutes, they’re all laughing uproariously over a bawdy joke from Corbyn about two Lance Corporals and one prostitute.

Pickering slips away as soon as he is able to do so without raising undue attention. Farley is still awake when Pickering sits on his bunk, though he pretends Pickering isn’t there. Pickering cards his fingers through Farley’s hair for a few minutes regardless. He doesn’t leave off until his friend’s shoulders aren’t trembling as much. 

~ * ~

_April 5th, 1918 -- Rouen, France_

Ten days after being removed from the line, Will finally has the time and space to reflect, observe, and think. The shrapnel hole in his side may ache abominably, but he’s grateful that they’ve stopped dosing him with morphine for every waking moment; it leaves him vastly more aware of what’s going on. 

And with Tom -- there is something going on. Sure, Will is the one who was saved by the Grim, but whatever it’s done -- whatever the Grim has . . . changed -- that has had an effect on Tom as well, and Will hasn’t yet figured it out.

Will watches Tom thoughtfully. Tom -- Tom is his usual chatty self. Maybe a little frustrated, and more than a little bored -- hell, they nearly got into a fight on Will’s fourth day here, because Will was using his precious paper to write all his commentary out instead of saying it where others could hear it, and Tom kept reading the comments when they were only half-written and assuming whatever Will was saying, making it _impossible_ to get a word in edgewise -- 

Will drags his thoughts back to the present. Rehashing an old conflict, especially one so silly, was not the best use of his time. Anyway, Tom has been bored, and chatty, and flitting around as usual -- but also not as usual.

Watching Tom at this moment, as he sits on the edge of the cot rattling on about some ghosts in another ward, it seems as if he has no desire in this world beyond Will lending an ear. But the truth is, there is something desperate in the way Tom’s hand sits atop the cover so close to Will’s ankle -- more specifically, in the way that hand creeps out towards it before Tom hastily pulls it back. 

Will prods his memory for a comparison. If he had to describe it, he’d say it reminds him of some of the strays he’s met in France. Stray dogs, anyway, the ones abandoned by farmers fleeing their fields with five minutes’ warning of an advancing army or left to scrounge in the blasted ruins of a bombed-out town. --And sure, some came right up to greet a soldier, certain that humans meant comfort and companionship; dogs were a friendly lot, on the whole. 

But Tom reminds Will of a different kind of stray, the kind that’s been left alone for a very long time. Those ones are thin and skeletal, hovering on the edge of encampments, watching groups of soldiers come and go with a tremendously fearful longing -- as though there is nothing they want more than to approach, but don’t remember how to do it. Or can’t bring themselves to try, terrified of an unkind hand or foot.

“You know,” Will says to him, interrupting a complicated story of three ghosts named John, Jean, and Ian and some sort of alcohol storage room, “you really should just let me know what is bothering you so much.”

Tom, arrested mid-sentence, blinks. “Um,” he says, and there’s a fleeting moment where his expression turns guilty. He knows exactly what Will is talking about. “I’m not bothered?”

Will shifts as though to ease his side and casually brushes Tom’s leg with his through the blanket. There’s no mistaking it -- Tom leans into the touch just a bit before he shifts away from it. It’s like he’s reminding himself not to brush up against Will too often.

Will holds out his hand. “Come on,” he says, keeping his tone light. “I’ve known you what, over a year now? Don’t think I don’t know when something’s up.”

All the emotion slides right out of his friend. Tom’s face is as expressionless as Will’s ever seen it. For a frightening moment, it’s like watching Tom wear away to nothing right in front of him.

Tom looks away. “Can’t pull anything by you these days,” he mutters. He takes off his helmet and scrubs his hands through his hair. The movement reminds Will of Joe, who does the exact same thing when he’s cornered and he knows it. 

Will laughs quietly and keeps his hand out. “It’s fine, Tom,” he says, making sure it’s said gently. This has been bothering Tom long enough that he hasn’t wanted to bring it up at all -- and that means he’s holding it close to himself, probably from fear. “There’s nothing wrong with it -- you’ve seen how the lads are in the trenches. Half of them are in each other’s pockets, most of the time.”

Tom glares at the ground. “But why do I want it so much?” he bursts out. “Christ, Will, I just -- it’s like -- I’ve had a whole year where it hasn’t been a problem, but now --” 

“I wasn’t used to it before I met your brother, either,” Will interrupts. “You know how he is -- always a hand on your shoulder, or cupping your elbow? I wasn’t used to that at all. But I’ll be damned if I didn’t miss it like hell when he got sent home in September.”

Tom’s shoulders slump. It’s not enough to convince him just yet, but tomorrow is the anniversary of his death. A whole year is a long time to go without touching someone else.

Will waves his outstretched hand a little. Tom shoots him a brief scowl -- but he takes it anyway. His grip is barely there. That doesn’t matter; it’s a start, at least. 

“So,” Will says, hoping to distract Tom enough to let him relax. “You had just gotten to the part where they found the stash the doctors were pilfering from. What happened next?”

~ * ~

_April 9th, 1918 -- Cavillon, France_

Richards finds Joseph in the mess at supper, half-heartedly working through a plate of . . . whatever the hell this is. The Captain joins Joseph, taking a seat next to him, companionably banging elbows to make doubly sure that Joseph notices he’s there.

“Sir,” Joseph says. It’s hard to find enthusiasm for anything greater than that. They’ve been off the line for nearly a full week, but -- it was very hard fighting. And he still hasn’t found time to get to a graveyard. He’s carrying so many of the ghosts from the 2nd Middlesex and 2nd West Yorks, he is half-convinced he feels their chill even with how they’re all stored away in his things. He can’t even sense them individually, anymore.

But then again, the Middlesex were cut down to a man, and there were barely 100 of the West Yorks left. Thank God the Devons had been loaned out for that counter-attack on Harbonnières, or they would have been backing up the rest of the 23rd Infantry when it was flanked and overwhelmed on the 28th. 

Joseph shivers. Ill luck indeed, when the best you can say about it is that at least you weren’t in the two-thirds of the brigade that was wiped out.

“Well this is a fine mess we’ve found ourselves in,” Richards says as he stares at the glop on his plate. “I almost wouldn't know what to do with it, if it weren't for simply moving forward.”

“Forward to what, though?” Joseph asks. It honestly just slips out -- he didn’t mean to say it. In the Army, there’s not really any reason to question, after all. That he’s doing so at all -- well, it’s not a good sign. He sets his fork down; he can’t eat another bite with how his stomach is threatening to empty itself.

“No bloody idea,” Richards says. He’s eating slowly, too; it looks like he’s got as much of an appetite as Joseph does. “I just know we’re not going to get there by staying put.”

Joseph covers his eyes and counts to ten, slowly. He really shouldn’t shout at his superior officer, and his friend doesn’t deserve it, either. He thinks. 

“You realise you’re the Lieutenant I’m the most concerned about,” Richards says, when the silence drags. “Langley’s doing alright; who’d’ve thought? Clive’s only out with a bit of shrapnel in his arm, he’ll be back in a week.”

“Perry’s dead,” Joseph mutters. “I’d think he’d be the worst-off.”

“I’d think so too, but you’re still alive,” Richards points out. “And you sure look worse than he does, at the moment. Which, honestly, given your handsome face, is really saying something.”

Joseph laughs, he thinks, but it sure doesn’t sound like it. Some of the remaining West Yorks officers look up, startled, and look away quickly at whatever they see. 

Richards tries not to outwardly react, but there is a moment of hesitation where he’s clearly thinking about what to say next. Joseph is not prepared for how Richards throws his arm over Joseph’s shoulders; he squeezes hard, briefly. 

Joseph pushes his plate away and puts his head down on the spot where it was, even if it is a huge breach of mess etiquette. He’s just leaking into it at this point, and there’s probably someone hungry enough to eat what’s left, and he’d rather not let it go to waste, and he doesn’t want to have to keep it together in a room full of people who have, objectively speaking, lost far more than he has of late.

“Give me five minutes,” Richards says firmly. “I’ll finish eating this . . . whatever this is, and then you and I are going to hole up in the room they’ve given me for quarters and we are going to get roaringly drunk.”

“Is that honestly your answer to everything?” Joseph wants to know, half muffled by his sleeve. 

“Hasn’t steered me wrong yet,” Richards says thoughtfully. “And don’t forget, I’ve got the Captain’s stars to prove it, eh?”

~ * ~

By the time Benjamin finishes, Blake has mostly pulled himself back together. Reddened eyes and a face that looks like it’s been roughed up is standard fare here, these days; Benjamin knows the Lieutenant won’t stand out particularly from any other officer trying to muster the energy to care about anything after a day of taking in new men and whipping them into fighting fitness, all at a frantic pace because with the way things are going, they’ll be sent out into the thick of it by the end of the week -- two brand new battalions and all.

Once they are in Benjamin’s quarters, he locates some of the nicer stuff he brought back from leave. There isn’t much, but they can switch to something of lesser quality once they are both drunk enough not to notice the taste. Blake accepts the glass and drinks blindly, not even batting an eye -- whatever is weighing on him must be very bad indeed. Benjamin isn’t responsible for anything else this evening, and so he instructs his personal batman not to let anyone in besides the Colonel or the Major (who both rank him) or Captain Hallewell (who is good company). 

Oh, but -- “Is there anyone you’re expecting?” Benjamin asks Blake. With no Sergeant, his platoon will be either looking to him or Sergeant Addington, who is already busy enough these days. 

“Lance Corporal Farley, maybe,” Blake says after a moment of thought. 

“Or Lance Corporal Farley,” Benjamin tells the batman, and dismisses him. “Now, sit! Sit, sit. We have made it through the Somme a second time, and we haven’t sustained heavy losses. I’d say let’s celebrate, but something is bothering you. What is weighing on you so heavily, Blake?”

Blake sits in the battered armchair someone unearthed from God knows where at Benjamin’s gesture and drinks again, obviously buying himself time to think. Fine; whatever helps him. Benjamin takes a seat in one of the less squashy chairs and savours his own drink; this kind of whiskey is hard to come by at the Front, and it goes down awfully easy.

“I made a mistake,” Blake says finally. “And I don’t know what to do about it, I suppose.”

Hmm. Blake hasn’t made any foolish orders that led to a noticeable casualty list; 5th Platoon came out of the last two weeks’ fighting fairly well, all things considered. Five men killed, twelve wounded -- and of those wounded, seven were lightly injured and were returned to the line within the week. 

But they did lose their Sergeant. And Benjamin hasn’t forgotten how close Blake was with Schofield -- he was Blake’s brother’s friend, wasn’t he? “With Schofield?” Benjamin guesses.

Blake exhales hugely and looks very conflicted -- which is answer enough. He opens his mouth several times to say something, and ends with a shrug. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he says, frustration clear. “I can’t -- there’s just --” He tries to articulate it again and fails, miserably. 

“Well, why not try starting at the beginning? I know, it’s trite, but still --”

Blake fails to respond to the note of humor Benjamin is trying to interject. Blake just looks at him -- Benjamin is reminded of the saying “death warmed over.” Even with a stiff drink in him, the man’s hands are shaking.

“Fuck it, Benjamin,” Blake says, exhausted. There is an unsettling air of defeat in his slump. “If you’ll listen, sure. You’re going to regret asking, though.” 

Well, this is what Benjamin is here for, as Captain. How bad can this be? So long as he doesn’t have to report Blake for court-martial -- well, Benjamin wouldn’t, anyway. Blake is his best Lieutenant when his head’s on straight, and even if he’s buggering half his platoon, Benjamin would rather cover that up than try to replace Blake when he’s already two officers short. 

“I’ll bite,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

And so Blake starts. “Schofield is -- was -- _is_ the deadman,” he says, and goes from there to tell Benjamin the flat-out _wildest_ story he’s ever heard -- about a secret position in each regiment that deals with, of all things, _ghosts._ It’s absolutely unbelievable. But the way Blake tells it -- visibly reluctant, very upset, and without the slightest bit of presentation to make it more palatable -- it’s very convincing. 

And -- well, it makes more sense, the unusual closeness between Blake and Schofield. If Schofield has Blake’s dead brother hanging around -- yes, that explains a lot of it. All of it, practically. Watching Blake’s face as he rambles about first finding out about Schofield’s abilities, Benjamin can piece it together: having a solid professional relationship lead to the start of a more personal friendship, cemented with the realisation that the other is already going above and beyond for your family without you even knowing it -- it’s the kind of tooth-aching selflessness of neither looking for nor expecting thanks that belongs in bloody penny dreadfuls.

Blake ends with something about nearly killing Schofield through Blake’s own obtuseness and catches sight of Benjamin, in the middle of mulling through it. Blake shutters visibly and starts to make excuses. “I shouldn’t even be talking about this,” he says, and makes as though he’s preparing to leave.

“No,” Benjamin says, alarmed, and curses his luck. Blake almost looks unhinged -- now is _not_ the time to let the man leave alone. “No, don’t you get up.” He casts about and -- shot in the dark; maybe reciprocating that personal address from earlier will help. “Christ, Joseph, you look like you’re going to fly apart at the seams.”

That does the trick. Blake explodes. “That’s because it’s awful!” Blake shouts at Benjamin, halfway through getting out of his seat. He gestures wildly as he continues. “You watch men get blown apart, and then you see their ghosts reliving it! You see men who should be dead, still moving and out of their minds with the pain! And you see your _dead brother_ every day, and you still have to _lie_ to your parents about how you’re moving on and getting over it because _they_ can’t! _It’s the worst bloody thing that’s ever happened to me!”_

Benjamin sits very still as Blake stops, chest heaving for breath. His hands are balled up in fists and he is absolutely not at all aware of the tears streaming down his face from the way he’s glaring at Benjamin.

Right. That is . . . that is rather a lot, Benjamin supposes. Slowly, he leans forward, picks up the decanter, and refills Blake’s glass.

“Right, Joe,” he says. “Why don’t you have another drink?”

Benjamin is still skeptical, he’ll be the first to admit. But he’s known Joseph Blake for nearly two years now, and the man is as honest as they come; able to eel his way through conversations about as well as a cow, though he does have some fine instincts for what topics to steer clear of at any given time to be sure. And . . . it still makes an awful lot of sense.

Thank God they’re well into the bottle by the time Schofield’s death comes up. Blake seems to have hit that point of consumption where alcohol blesses one with total numbness; he relates the difficult situation remarkably dry-eyed.

“Gut wound, we could see that immediately. He knew it, too. He insisted on . . .” Even numb, Blake needs to suck in a few breaths before he can finish. “He didn’t want me to have to carry his ghost, so he begged to be taken to a graveyard. I couldn’t say no. But I -- I couldn’t leave the line, either. I couldn’t leave the men, not even for him and -- not for Tom. So I sent him with two others, and -- I should have known better.”

Benjamin tops up Blake’s glass and makes an encouraging noise. It’s already a hellish decision to make, choosing one’s duty over one’s personal attachments and family, whether or not they are already dead. He wonders how the situation could possibly be made worse.

“They took him at least, that part went alright,” Blake says, briefly attempting a note of positivity. It doesn’t succeed. He makes a miserable noise and covers his face again. “Had to argue like hell with the Lance Corporal -- he was furious we weren’t taking Schofield to the aid post. The other one, the Private, he was more practical; he already knew it was a matter of time. He talked Farley around. But they didn’t leave Schofield in the churchyard alone -- they stayed with him. And they stayed for too long.”

“And . . . that means they see ghosts now,” Benjamin deduces. Damn, but if he isn’t glad he’s very nearly three sheets to the wind at this point. It makes it a hell of a lot easier to set aside reason and just go with rewriting the rules of reality.

Blake nods. “Pickering’s a bloody mess. He can hardly function, even with the basics,” he says quietly, horrified. “Farley’s doing alright, but he’s only keeping it together for Pickering. And they wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t sent them -- I should’ve known better.” 

And that appears to be the end of it. Blake broods, or tries too; he’s having trouble focusing on anything in particular. If Benjamin is well into it, Blake’s even further gone. 

“I see,” Benjamin says, and thinks for a long moment. The quiet stretches long enough that he can see Blake fighting to keep his eyes open by the time Benjamin comes to the decision of what to say. “So. It appears to me that you are torn over your duty to your men, your duty to your Sergeant, and your duty to your other men.” 

Blake rubs the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to have to run that by me again,” he says, blinking back to awareness.

“Schofield -- who carried your brother Tom’s ghost -- got hit by shrapnel and was dying,” Benjamin says, ticking it off on a finger. Blake’s breath hitches, but it looks like he’s all cried out at the moment -- good, good. Blake nods eventually, waving a hand for Benjamin to continue. “As a last request, he asked to be taken to a graveyard.” Another nod.

“With him down, you couldn’t leave your platoon on the line, so you sent him with the senior Lance Corporal and another man. They disobeyed your orders to leave Schofield alone in the graveyard and now they can also see the ghosts,” Benjamin finishes slowly. It’s a marvel how calmly he’s able to recount all this, because, God help him, he’s starting to think it might actually be true. 

Blake buries his head in his hands again. “I should’ve gone,” he says, voice all muffled. “They wouldn’t have left him alone -- I knew it, they knew it. And I still had them go.”

“Bollocks,” Benjamin says firmly. He straightens in his chair quite by accident -- but this is literally the definition of the system within which they operate, and it is impossible to separate being a Captain from his assessment at this moment. “You ordered them. They made their choice. Whether they were _likely_ to follow orders or not has no bearing on it -- you were their commanding officer and you gave them an order. They are supposed to carry it out.”

Blake shakes his head stubbornly. “You and I both know that’s shite.”

Benjamin sighs. This is the trickiest situation he’s ever had to listen in on, and detangling it is a _mess._ “I know,” he says, dropping his formality. “Christ, do I know. But what do you want me to say, Joe? It sounds like you made the best decision you could make under the circumstances.”

Fuck, Blake’s shoulders are shaking again. He doesn’t seem to have any bloody tears left in him, poor man, but his body sure thinks he should. Is this what having a younger brother is like? Benjamin thinks wistfully of his four sisters, all of whom are shrieking harridans at their best and absolute banshees all other times. He can handle screaming with no trouble at all. 

“Look,” Benjamin says, when Blake doesn’t say anything to that; he hopes it means that some of what Benjamin said is sinking in. As it is, Blake is clearly overwhelmed. “It’s damned late, and you’re exhausted. We’ve drunk the bottle dry, and I’m not sure I’d recommend you have any more anyway, since you didn’t actually finish your supper --”

Blake shakes a little more, but this time it’s from ragged laughter. “Fine,” he says, and makes as if to stand. He can’t quite manage it, and groans. “Damn. Maybe you’re right.”

Benjamin drags a hand over his face and considers his options. Under even the best circumstances, hauling an officer across camp because he couldn’t stand from sheer inebriation was not the wisest course of action. And where is Blake even bunking? With Clive -- he’s still evacuated from the line. In the condition Blake’s in, that is the stupidest decision Benjamin can think of making.

“Right,” he says, decided. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sending you back to your quarters in this state, we’ve only got one bed, and I’m _not_ sleeping on the floor. Get in, we’ll sleep it off; in the morning things will look brighter.”

“God, I hope so,” Blake slurs, and doesn’t resist when Benjamin helps him up to stumble over to the bed. He’s out like a light once he’s horizontal; the man probably hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since his Sergeant was killed. But then, that’s most of them these days, Benjamin thinks, shoving the sleeping Lieutenant to the side for a bit more room. Damn, if this war isn’t a bitter situation.

~ * ~

_April 10th, 1918 -- Cavillon, France_

The sound of the batman tiptoeing to the door and edging it open to check on the two of them is what wakes Joseph first; the creaking of the floorboards is a dead giveaway. It does not pair nicely with the nearly-blinding headache he’s got, achy and dry in that particular way that tells him that, not only did he drink far more than he can usually tolerate, he also did something _really_ exhausting. He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, hoping to relieve at least some of the pain.

“Fuck off,” Richards slurs next to him. When Joseph cracks open one eye, he sees the Captain make a clawing motion at the orderly. “Go ‘way.”

“Sir,” says the batman, unperturbed, “you have a meeting in an hour with the Colonel. You asked me to wake you so you could find breakfast.”

“God damn it,” Richards says, and then adds something else that is incoherent.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Fuck,” Joseph mutters. “Is there a meeting this morning?”

“Er. Maybe. For me, certainly, can’t remember if you need to come.”

“You said it was for the officers of the Devons, Sir,” the batman pipes up, helpfully.

Richards swears for a moment before heaving himself up. “Fine,” he says. “Fine, fine. Get a messenger to -- fuck. Langley, and Sergeant Addington, and Sergeant -- shit. Sergeant Jones. Tell them there’s a meeting in one hour.”

Joseph sits up, too -- but slower. The world doesn’t -- quite -- spin, but it does . . . move unpleasantly. Today is going to be horrible. 

He takes stock of the situation. Joseph fell asleep in his uniform; it’s hardly presentable, now, but he really doubts he’s going to make it back to his quarters to put on something cleaner if he also wants to get to the mess to eat. And he will need to eat. If he doesn’t, he’ll probably fall flat on his face.

“Here,” Richards says, groggy still for all he’s up and pulling on a fresh tunic. He nods very slightly to a basin with toiletries and other things and winces at the movement. “Use whatever’s there. It’ll help make up for your uniform.”

They’re able to get out of Richards’s quarters ten minutes later, both slightly fresher, even if there’s nothing to be done about the obvious bloodshot quality to their eyes. Joseph forwent shaving; a night’s worth of hard drinking didn’t do his hands any good, and after Richards nicked himself twice in the process, Joseph wasn’t going to let him anywhere near his throat with a straight razor. Slovenly, Mother would say, very slovenly; but Joseph grimly pardons himself, because it isn’t as though he’s made a habit of this. And because he can’t really muster the energy to actually _care._

Richards had said things would look brighter in the morning, and to some extent they do; Joseph is now too exhausted, truly exhausted, to fret about what he should or shouldn’t have done. Maybe talking helped, too. Richards didn’t seem to really understand the gravity of Joseph’s error, but his acceptance was apparently enough to set at least some of Joseph’s guilt at ease.

“Today is going to be a nightmare,” Richards mutters under his breath, squinting in the bright sunlight of a beautiful spring day. “Bloody hell. I would say come back tonight if you need, but I’m not as young as you are anymore. Give me a day to recuperate?”

“You prick, you’re the one who suggested this in the first place,” Joseph growls back. “--Sir.”

Richards sniggers in a most un-Captainly way. They hobble across the camp.

“Lieutenant Blake!” someone shouts. Joseph stops and looks around, trying hard to ignore the slow roll of his stomach -- what the hell is happening now? He is not prepared for whatever it is. The flash of panic he feels makes him fervently regret last night. “Lieutenant Blake!”

It’s Farley, coming across the ground at a dead sprint. He skids to a halt with a haphazard salute and shoves something in Joseph’s direction. “Sir!” he says. “You’ve got a letter, Sir, it’s from the Sergeant.”

“Christ,” Richards says, blinking owlishly. “Isn’t he dead?”

“Er,” Joseph says. He takes the letter and stares at it. His name, rank, and unit is printed sloppily on the outside -- he’s seen Schofield’s writing before, and this bears only a passing resemblance to it.

“Sir, can you read it?” Farley demands. Some of the other men from the platoon -- Kimberley, Pickering, and Hunt -- come up to them as well, panting. “Is he alright? Did he make it off the line?”

“Watch your tone, Lance Corporal,” Richards says sharply.

“No, it’s fine,” Joseph says, and tears the letter open. 

He isn’t sure what he expects, but Will sure as hell doesn’t disappoint: even as poorly lettered as it is, it’s clearly his work. Joseph reads it twice and double-checks the date. At the end of it, he would dearly like to cry with the relief he feels; but he also just feels like vomiting all over the ground. He’s not sure which outcome would be worse.

“Well, Sir?” Farley asks, marginally more polite, and looking a little more uneasy.

Joseph hands the letter back over to him and winces as the movement seriously upsets his stomach. He reaches out and clings to a vaguely-alarmed Richards, willing himself not to throw up. “He’s alive,” he croaks. “Read it. God -- he’s made it. He’s alive.” 

Pickering, normally a gentle man, pounds Farley on the back so hard that Farley almost falls forward, flat on his face. Kimberley and Hunt both shout with elation. Farley skims through the letter, ignoring it all, and punches the air when he’s finished.

“Boys! Boys -- oh, damn,” Richards says, wincing hard. “Come on, Blake, leave them to it. I can’t handle this.”

Breakfast is a daze, but for entirely different reasons than yesterday’s supper. It is curious how quickly one letter can turn things around, Joseph thinks giddily. He eats everything on his plate -- slower than he’d normally do it, but nonetheless, he doesn’t lose his appetite halfway through -- and part of Richards’s, which is abandoned after several attempts to do more than pick at it are made by the older man. 

“I’ve just got to make it through this meeting,” Richards mutters to himself when they leave the mess. “Then I can go and sleep this off. Just this meeting.”

They make it in time. All of the 2nd’s officers are there, including the stand-ins for the missing ones. The Major is in the front; it looks like Colonel Hepburn will be absent for the proceedings.

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” he says formally. “I know it’s short notice, but we’ve received our orders. We’re moving out to the Front in two days’ time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A MASSIVE thank you to scientistsinistral for all her help with research. You guys -- she found the 2nd Devonshire Battalion’s _War Diaries._ For _free, online!!!_ And then she shared them with us <3 Thank you, darling!!!! 
> 
> Thank you also to ALL OF YOU, you wonderful readers and reviewers!!!! We cannot stress this enough: reading your take on the updates is SO HELPFUL, whether it’s incoherent shrieking or blow-by-blow accounts of your reactions as you read! And in these times of uncertainty and, especially in the US and HK, actual peril -- it is nice to receive proof that you’re still out there. Stay safe you guys, and if you are morally compelled to risk your safety, be thoughtful and prepare to the best of your ability. We love you and we really don’t want you hurt.
> 
> The next Interlude will be up within the week!!! Super exciting! And after THAT -- well hmm. Let’s say the next plot chapter should be up on or around Friday of next week? 
> 
> Stay tuned! And, as always, let us know your thoughts here or on tumblr -- we’re @marbat and @lizofalltrades!
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> 1\. Names, dates, places, times, action??? Is it REAL?????
> 
> All names for the characters are fictionalised -- none of them are real people’s names (that we are aware of). All locations and dates are real, and the action is also real. Fun facts: the two _other_ battalions in the 23rd Infantry Brigade did, indeed, basically get wiped out at the end of March, 1918, and if the 2nd Devons hadn’t been lent out for a counter-attack, there is every reason to believe they would have been overwhelmed and killed there, too. And . . . yes. The 2nd Middlesex and the 2nd West Yorks had roughly one week to get new men sorted and trained and ready for combat. (The only part that is slightly tweaked -- I don’t think the 23rd Infantry Brigade got their orders _that_ early in the morning on April 10th; that was just dramatic license!)
> 
> 2\. Why is everyone touching so much? Aren't they afraid of being seen as homosexual?
> 
> It's a comfort thing! Believe us, we thought long and hard (lol) about addressing this so explicitly; we've written it in a lot so far (Will points this out), but not really drawn much attention to it. Here is our logic for this work: 
>   * Modern attitudes of what constitutes homosexual behaviour in men (such as holding hands, hugging, arms around shoulders, sitting on top of/close to one another) and the suspicion of someone utilising those touches as being inherently homosexual don't really develop until after WWII. This can be seen in letters between friends -- writing about one's love for one's same-sex friend was seen as a perfectly normal expression, whereas today "I love you -- no homo" is the go-to; even if you subvert it ("ALL THE HOMO") there is an acknowledgement of an expectation of hyperawareness of the possibility of homosexuality. This translates to acceptable physical affection -- when you're not EXPECTING people to be homosexual, those sorts of touches are not viewed as inherently suspicious.
>   * The men are in very traumatic situations, and frequently. In a traumatic situation, one turns to whatever comfort one can get; alcohol is referenced frequently in our story for that reason. And, as it so happens, positive physical touch actually offers tangible neurological benefits -- it gives you a shot of oxytocin when you get enough of it! This can be anything from full-on sexual intimacy to simple hand-holding, hugging, or a kiss on the cheek.
>   * They are all really living in very close proximity. When you've shared a bunk/floor/dugout/trench with the same people long enough, eaten the same terrible food, groaned over the same terrible latrine with the same terrible diarrhea at the same time, etc. etc. etc. -- those boundaries of what is private drop, and with it, so do a lot of other things. The more comfortable you are around a person, the more likely you are to be physically affectionate.
>   * Actually you know what? Just . . . just go read this article on [the power of touch.](https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/articles/201303/the-power-touch)
> 



	8. nwl: Interlude III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _now we lie_ Interlude III: miscellaneous material, including the War Diaries of the 2nd Devonshire Battalion, dated March 24th - April 2nd, 1918, and the correspondence of Lieutenant Joseph Andrew Blake, dated April 1918.

_Transcription of the War Diary for the 2nd Devonshire Battalion, for the dates of March 24th - April 2nd, 1918._

24/3/18. _In Line. Beat off several attacks.  
_ 25/3/18. _Withdrew to line in front of ESTREES.  
_ 26/3/18. _A general line was to be held running N and S of ROSIERS.  
_ _Battalion was in Brigade Support.  
_ 27/3/18. _Battalion was called upon to counter-attack through HARBONNIERES which they did with great success. Details which were left behind were also called out and successfully beat back an attack just N of ROSIERS.  
_ 28/3/18. _In Line at CAIX._   
29/3/18. _Marched back to JUMEL in Billets.  
_ 30/3/18. _Battalion moved up to hold line on east side of river at CASTEL.  
_ 31/3/18. _Enemy attacked heavily and we withdrew in order to conform with movements of Unit on left flank.  
_ 1/4/18. _Formed line outside wood which we successfully held.  
_ 2/4/18. _Relieved by the French and came out to DUMMARTIN. Enbussed at SAINS-EN-AMIENOIS at 11 a.m. and debussed at AILLY-SUR-SOMME. Marched to billets at BREILLY._

Casualties: --Lieut. E. D. Anderton killed 25/3/18, Lieut. S. G. Gresham killed 25/3/18, dm Sgt. W. Schofield D.M.C., M.M. killed 25/3/18. Lieut. C. F. Perry, missing 25/3/18, Lieut. R. D. Wakefield, died of wounds 2/4/18.

The following were wounded: -- Lieut. E. T. Quinton 25/3/18, Lieut. J. J. Redfield 27/3/18, Lieut. C. F. Astley 27/3/18, Lieut. L. N. Marlowe M.C. 31/3/18, Lieut L. L. Reed 27/3/18, Lieut. F. F. Clive 28/3/18, Captain R. Manley 25/3/18.

Total: -- Officers -- 10. Other Ranks -- 304.

A. R. Hepburn, 8/4/18. 

Lieut. Colonel, 

Commanding 2nd Battalion Devonshire Regiment.

* * *

April 11, 1918

Dear Will,

It is astonishing how the Fates favour us, sometimes. Barely did I receive your first letter yesterday when the second was delivered today. I think the men in charge of the post must be having a hell of a time keeping up with the demand.

I am taking the time to write to you now as we are already being pulled from our time off the line to go back towards it. The fighting was as fierce as you heard it was -- and then some. As a result, I and the entirety of the platoon have all been greatly cheered to receive word that you are recovering. It is a most unexpected blessing and I cannot begin to relate to you the depth of our elation on this matter.

F. and P. are managing as well as can be expected. I suspect that P. at least needs your guidance in particular -- he is having a very rough time of it. F. is doing better with it, but he was always fairly unflappable in the face of the unthinkable to begin with. Scuttlebutt has it that F was drafted out of one of the gangs in Manchester and the more I see him in action the more I believe it -- he hasn’t taken to his new skills quickly, but he doesn’t allow the gs. to get in his way, either.

I am sorry to hear the hospital is so terribly dull. Had I the time and leave to do so, I would happily risk exposing myself to such tedium on your behalf; well do I remember it when I was sent there back in August last year. That Tom cannot keep you entertained is astonishing to me, but I suppose if he is also horribly bored by the circumstances, it stands to reason. 

How many are “a few weeks?” The men complain awfully and I think some of them may take it upon themselves to visit you regardless of permission if you do not return soon enough to soothe their collective rabidity.

Sincerely,

Joseph

~ * ~

April 11, 1918

Dear Mrs Spencer,

I must beg your pardon regarding my tardiness in responding to your last letter. I can assure you my every intention was to respond to it as speedily as I have done prior, but other events unfortunately kept me occupied. 

In short, we were pulled from our training period to go at once for another period on the line. We saw some heavy action there, and it was costly. My Sergeant was struck down with a mortal wound. Nevertheless, we ensured he made it to the aid station; we only found out yesterday that he has survived and is on his way to recovery. But before we received word of this, it was possibly the blackest week the men and myself have ever spent, so dispirited were we all, and we on the line for the whole of it.

We have spent some time recovering since then, but it appears our rest will be short. We are being ordered hither and thither, with a great deal of cancellation at a moment’s notice. Still, we are moving somewhere it will be easier to stage from, I think. I am not sure where we are going yet.

London sounds like a busy city. Perhaps I shall have to visit at some point, though I confess I shouldn’t know my way around without a guide as knowledgeable as yourself. 

I am still hoping to make it home in May, but I think I may have to be prepared if such plans fall through. Things are very uncertain at the moment.

Has spring come at last to Leeds? How are things at home?

Sincerely,

Joseph Blake

~ * ~

April 19, 1918

Dear Lt. Blake,

You are in the business of war, and the business of war requires no excuses. Nevertheless, I appreciate your explanation. I had begun to worry that I would need to write to the Waterfords to call upon your parents and see if they had received some disastrous news. 

It is good to hear that the ultimate cost is not always paid. My best wishes to your Sergeant; I shall pray for his safe and speedy recovery. Are you two very close? I know the Sergeant is important in leading a platoon, and you mentioned a habit of post-supper walks with him previously. Were I a woman more taken with the feminine flights of fancy that are so often ascribed to my sex, I may almost be jealous that the man spends such time in your company. I shall have to content myself with memories of our promenade about the winter garden, and the hope that you think of that night as often as I do. 

Spring has come at last. Many of the people here in Leeds complain that it is unseasonably warm. I find it amusing as last spring, they complained that the young folk of the day were too unaccustomed to the cold. Some people will complain simply for the joy of complaining I suppose. I will admit however, that the people of Leeds are not entirely wrong -- it _was_ unusually cold last year; I’m not sure if you were home for the spring to be able to remember it. In any case, I still find it dreadfully chilly, no matter how warm the locals purport it to be; so though I do my best to get fresh air and observe the flowers that are all in bloom, now, I always go out quite warmly wrapped.

If you have trouble finding a guide for London, I may be able to find a suitable person when the time comes. Merely say the word and I shall do my best to provide! I have it on good authority that the Tower of London is delightfully macabre if one considers staring at jewels and hungry birds a diverting amusement.

If permission for leave becomes unobtainable, I suppose one will just have to make do. I have enclosed some photographs -- one for those times when you and your men compare those waiting for them at home, and one for just you. Though it may be impossible for you to return home, I can certainly travel to you!

Sincerely,

Sophia Spencer

~ * ~

_First photograph enclosed._

_The reverse has the following text in neat cursive:_

_"Sincerely, Antonia Sophia Maria Spencer."_

~ * ~

_Second photograph enclosed._

_The reverse has the following text in neat cursive:_

_"_ _Joseph,_

_Convinced my mother to let me wear one of her old opera dresses at the photographer's as a lark. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did._

_Yours always,_

_Sophia"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blows kisses and hugs to everyone* HELLO HELLO dear readers, we adore you and everything you are! Please enjoy this light update before the next plot chapter drops; hopefully it shall alleviate one's mid-week craving for more of this fic. The next chapter is still slated for Friday update; we've got 2.5k words written of it so far, and we know exactly where we are going to go with it. If it turns out to be another 14k monstrosity (possible) we might not be able to update until Sunday, but we promise we are doing our best to try to get it all finished by Friday!
> 
> Thanks due to PAVUVU, who is the discoverer of these lovely ladies and also just in general, great hilarity. We have no idea where the first photo came from (three whole pages of google image search reveals . . . Pintrest), but the second lady is La Belle Otero, a famous courtesan! She apparently counted both Kaiser Wilhelm II and King Edward VII amongst her lovers ( ͡° ͜ ʖ ͡° ) 
> 
> Thanks also due to @scientistsinistral, again, for providing us with the War Diaries of the 2nd Devons! The transcription above is the actual War Diaries; the names have been modified (all have been replaced with the names of OCs) and some other notes about various officers returning from leave or Army School have been excised. In actuality, by the end of this first bit of the Somme, 14 officers were killed or wounded, as opposed to the 10 listed. (Schofield doesn't count as an officer bc they mean commissioned, here, and he is a non-com.) 
> 
> As ever, you can find us at @marbat (Pavuvu) and @lizofalltrades (Ealasaid) on tumblr! There's updates about chapters being written there, and Pavuvu's fabulous title cards for each chapter when we post the tumblr notifications *u*


	9. nwl: April 20th - May 1st, 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 2nd Devons face the last gasp of the Somme and what comes after.

_April 20th, 1918 -- Villers Bretonneux, France_

Will swings down off the truck with only a bit of a wince. He was told by the nurses and the doctor at the hospital that, although he had recovered remarkably fast from his shrapnel wound, he was not to put undue stress on it if he could at all help. Tom later told him that they’d been muttering about how it mustn’t have been a true gut wound, but merely a deep gouge or something of the like with how fast it had closed up. Odd, that, since they _did_ have to dig the shrapnel out of him in the first place -- they’d know how deep it went originally -- but hell, Will wasn't going to question it.

Villers Bretonneux is where the 23rd Infantry Brigade is stationed. Will managed to charm one of the Quartermaster’s men into letting them hitch a ride from the train depot, or else they’d have had to walk out here. What Will cares about most at the moment, though, is that they are _here_ and, somewhere, so are the 2nd Devons. He feels it like a bone-deep itch, that urge to get back to Joseph and 5th Platoon. It might just be the interminable boredom of the hospital, but for the last week it had seemed to be nothing but nerves ceaselessly thrumming all through him. With his feet touching ground at last, so close to where he should be, Will feels like he can start to breathe a little, again.

The area where the truck has stopped is busy -- Will sees some men with yellow-red-yellow patches showing that they are from the 2nd West Yorks, and others with the solid yellow of the 2nd Middlesex. Bless Sergeant Stanley; he’s gotten Will and Tom very nearly exactly where they need to go. 

“Home sweet home,” Tom says, looking around with much the same sort of expression. Not that they’ve ever been in this sector -- at least, not that Will remembers -- but all around them are men with familiar badges. 

Will tips his head in a small salute to Sergeant Stanley in thanks, who nods back absentmindedly, already busy waving Privates forward to come unload. “It’s hard being away,” he says to Tom, and they set about finding some of their men. “Makes you feel all unsettled. You’re not where you feel you ought to be.”

Tom bumps up against him as they walk in a show of solidarity. “I suppose,” he says. “I guess I’ve just never been away long enough for it to affect me.” 

Up ahead, a Colonel turns onto the road with some orderlies. Will starts to move out of the way -- best not to attract so superior an officer’s attention, after all -- and starts; it’s Hepburn. Even more surprising is how Colonel Hepburn looks right past the two of them before taking a second, harder look, and exclaiming “Sergeant Schofield? I heard you were killed!”

“Sir,” Will says, coming to attention and saluting. In the corner of his eye, he notices Tom belatedly coming to attention as well -- since this is the one officer who can see him, too, likely. “Sorry to disappoint, Sir.”

Colonel Hepburn acknowledges their salutes. He does not look as though he’s been doing well of late. The circles under his eyes and the lines of exhaustion match that of every other officer in the vicinity. Still, it seems to disappear when he smiles at Will; it’s a look of outright relief. It’s unsettling.

So is the way he claps Will on the shoulder. “Not at all, lad,” he says. “I hadn’t realised how good a job you were doing until you disappeared. I’m grateful you are back.”

Will winces. He’s been gone before; those rumors he’s heard about Middlesex and West Yorks being slaughtered must have been true, then, because he can’t think of any other reason why there would be such a need for more than one deadman in the battalion. And he knows Joseph would not sit idly by if ghosts came past him, but he hasn’t had nearly the practice Will has, and Hepburn still doesn’t know about Joseph -- or at least, Will doesn’t think so, anyway.

“I’m grateful to be back,” Will says, putting a pin in that for later. “The hospital was frightfully boring.” 

“I’ve never liked being in those myself,” Hepburn allows. For a moment a shadow passes over his face; Will wonders if Hepburn has had to deal with unruly spirits himself whilst convalescing. “But come, come. I’m headed back to the Devons myself; walk with me.”

“Certainly,” Will says, and falls in next to the Colonel. Tom sticks his hands in his pockets and knocks up against Will as he matches Will’s pace on his other side. The orderlies trail the three of them.

“So tell me, Sergeant -- there’s something different about you,” Colonel Hepburn says abruptly. “It’s . . . unusual.”

It’s on the tip of Will’s tongue to say something like _three weeks’ worth of solid meals, probably,_ but he gets the sense that that isn’t what the Colonel is referring to. “It must be the near-death experience, Sir,” Will says mildly, instead. “It gives one a new perspective on life.”

Hepburn raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?” he asks. “I’ve known many men who, after thinking themselves certain to die, come back with a new determination -- but I hadn’t thought you that sort of man.”

“I wouldn’t recommend the experience,” Will says, as blandly as he can manage. “If that is what you are asking, Sir.”

Hepburn snorts. “I can imagine so.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Hepburn lets it rest for a moment. He seems thoughtful. “As you might have heard, we’ve lost a great deal of men from the Brigade of late,” he says after a moment. “And many more from the Division as a whole. It has been a -- strain on our resources, trying to get everyone into shape fast enough.” 

“I’ve heard it was some hard fighting,” Will says cautiously, when it is clear that Hepburn is waiting for him to respond. He isn’t sure what the Colonel is getting at.

“It was,” Hepburn says, grim. “It makes one think . . .”

But he doesn’t say anything else. Will, sneaking a glance at him, sees the Colonel is lost in thought; he holds his tongue. He doesn’t know what he’d say, and Tom won’t suggest anything for him anyway -- Hepburn always flusters Tom with how Tom feels conflicted over whether or not he should conform to Army regulations whilst dead.

There’s a shout ahead of them. Familiar faces are turned towards Will where he walks with the Colonel -- it’s Privates Tyndall, Lester, and Kimberley. Tyndall gapes like a fish; Lester and Kimberley look triumphant. All three wave to get his attention before noticing he’s walking with Hepburn, whereupon they hurriedly compose themselves.

It catches Hepburn’s attention, anyway. “Men from your platoon? I’ll try to catch you at another time,” Hepburn says graciously. “I’m certain they’ll be able to take you back faster than I can.”

“Yes, Sir,” Will says, saluting. “Thank you, Sir.”

He heads for the Privates, suspecting he is about to be greeted with a hell of a lot of enthusiasm. And indeed, as soon as Will is within range (and the Colonel sufficiently distant), the three of them are on him, pounding him on the back and shouting hullos to his face. Will manages to give each one a pat on the shoulder in greeting, and then cuffs Tyndall for the obvious outline of a bottle of something guaranteed to be contraband, which sets the three of them to laughing almost hysterically.

“We heard you were dead,” Lester tells him, grinning so widely Will doesn’t know how he manages to say anything. “And then we heard you were alive, but you’d been savaged by a wolf --”

“But that was just Farley, scaring us all,” Kimberley interrupts. Will sighs and makes sure it’s obvious to them; clearly he’s going to have to handle some wild speculative rumors in the coming weeks. Well, it could be worse. “Are we glad to see you’ve come out of it alright. You had us worried, there!” 

“Well I’m here and I’m not dead,” Will says lightly. “What news of the 5th? I’ve heard back only once from the Lieutenant, and I think I’ve beaten my return letter here. Might as well have just kept it to hand it to him myself.”

The men laugh, as he intended. They lead him to where 5th is billeted, practically falling over themselves as they tell him about the rest of the battle (very hard fighting, but only five new men to drub into shape); the week of rest they all had after being relieved from the battle (“I never slept so much in my life!” Kimberley exclaims); being ordered out here not too soon after only to continue training (drilling was still endlessly boring and with only five new men to train, something the 5th found a waste of time on the whole). 

They run into more and more of the boys -- Campbell and Merton, then Brandt, and Oakes with Watts and a new lad, Smithers. Campbell and Merton and Brandt fall in, but the others are headed off for a labour detail and can’t do more than take a moment to clap Will on the shoulder in greeting before heading off. 

The billet has several other men all surreptitiously hiding out to avoid getting pulled into a work detail. Will spots Pickering, who isn’t very good at hiding his expression -- his face is one of total relief when he sees it is Will causing the hubbub. The lot of them are all just as enthusiastic as the lads already following Will here and scramble from their spots in the billet, effusive in their welcome.

Will gets his things stowed in an empty bunk in nearly no time at all. Tom, entertained as he is by the men’s antics, is getting fidgety; Joseph is nowhere to be seen. “Right lads,” Will says into the chatter, “where’s the Lieutenant gone?”

“He’s with Captain Richards,” Campbell pipes up. “Something about going over maps, I guess? The other Lieutenants are there, too.” 

“Then that’s where I’m bound,” Will says. “Got to report in formally, I s’pose.”

It is endearing how reluctant the men are to let him go, but after a few last questions he is permitted to leave the billets free of company. 

“Whew!” Tom says, nudging him with an elbow once they are far enough to not be overheard. “Never knew how popular you were, Scho!”

“You’re telling me,” Will says, bemused. “You think we’re going to be able to surprise him, or d’you think someone’s told him already?”

Richards’s quarters aren’t too far from the billets, thankfully. Captain Richards always preferred quartering nearer to his Company as a rule, and usually someone is able to find something to accommodate those preferences. Unfortunately, the orderly at the door isn’t too keen on letting Will enter.

“I’ve orders that no one is to disturb them,” he says, sincerely apologetic. Tom makes a face nevertheless; he rolls his eyes at Will and just walks through the door. Will struggles to keep his expression bland -- with knowing Tom and Joe for so long now, he can guess what’s coming next. “I know the Captain will be pleased you are following the proper procedures, but I cannot make an exception --”

The door opens in a hurry and Joseph pokes his head out. Seeing Will, he steps out of the room and shouts something that sounds like “Schofield, you _arse”_ and hauls Will into a most undignified hug, one which threatens severely to crack his ribs, while the orderly starts and resignedly shuts his mouth on the rest of his objections.

It’s almost like coming home, the way elation seizes Will. He blinks back the surge of emotion as he wraps one arm around Joseph and pounds him on the back with the other. There is something giddy to it all -- or maybe it’s just feeling his own toes brush the floor. “Oof,” Will gets out, breathless. “You’re going to kill me -- yes, yes, I’m alive, didn’t my letters tell you that already?” 

Joe grins at him crookedly when he lets Will down at last. “Letters are a poor substitute for seeing it for myself,” he returns. Some of the amusement drops away, then; Joe holds Will an arm’s length apart and scrutinizes Will’s appearance critically. Will knows from one of the mirrors at the hospital that he looks miles better than when Joe saw him last -- not being in a trench splattered with filth and blood does wonders for one’s presentation. Nevertheless, when Joe’s fingers brush the neatly-mended hole where the shrapnel cut through the uniform, Joseph's expression darkens for a moment. 

Will takes his hand and pulls it away from the patch. “Really,” he says to his friend, gently. “I am fine.”

“Good Lord, he wasn’t lying,” Richards says from the doorway, peering at them both. Will snaps to attention and salutes. “You really have come back from the dead! Amazing.”

“Yes, Sir,” Will says as Joseph shakes the frown from his face and also turns towards Richards. “Colonel Hepburn said much the same when he saw me an hour ago, Sir.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose he thought you were still dead,” Richards muses. “Never did get around to telling him that we’d heard from you, I guess. --Well, if he saw you himself, I suppose I don’t have to report it!”

“Sir,” Will says, unsure of how to respond to that. Joseph makes an exasperated noise but doesn’t add anything. 

“As it stands, Sergeant, my orderly was right,” Richards continues crisply. “I’m afraid I need Lieutenant Blake for a while yet. You two can catch up later.”

“After supper?” Will murmurs to Joseph as the Captain goes back into the room.

“I’ll bully Clive into letting me have the room,” Joseph promises. He hesitates for a moment, and then pulls Will into another quick squeeze. “Thank God you made it,” he says before letting Will go again roughly.

Will snorts. He pats Joseph’s shoulder. “We’ll talk later. Get back to your work, Lieutenant.”

The reunion with Joseph seems to have done the trick; Will finally has the distinct sensation that he is back where he should be. He shakes his head and sets his shoulders into an appropriate stance before nodding to the orderly and leaving himself.

“It ought to worry me more that I feel so at home in the Army,” Will mutters to Tom. He finds it hard to endow the dire words with the appropriate tone, though.

“Pffft,” Tom scoffs. “Don’t get too emotional, now -- you’ll turn into Joe if you’re not careful.”

Will smacks his shoulder. “Don’t be rude,” he says, amused despite himself. 

~ * ~

“Corp’!” Hunt comes jogging up to Farley in the middle of the work detail Farley’s been suckered into. The man’s a skinny thing, looks like a strong wind will blow him over, but Farley’s seen him pop a good one to a man twice his size and send him flying -- good for a brawl. What’s he doing here? “Corp’, Sergeant Schofield -- he’s back. You mentioned wanting to see him when he got here, right?”

Sergeant Schofield is back? Sarge is _back._ Oh, thank God. “Fucking finally,” Farley snaps to cover his relief. It isn’t hard to sound angry, he’s already spent the last hour grumbling under his breath about this shite detail. He hands Hunt his shovel. “Here you go. Take over for me.”

“But --”

“I’ll pay it back!” Farley shouts behind him, already making for the billet. That’s where Pick’s going to be, no doubt -- that man is scary good at avoiding work parties. One day, he’s got to teach Farley his secret.

He finds Pick no problem, lying on his bunk and pretending to be asleep. Again. Well, Sarge’ll sort that out, with any luck. 

“Pick,” Farley says, poking him. “C’mon, get up.”

“What d’you want, Far’?” Pick says, miming sleepiness. 

“Sergeant Schofield is back,” Farley says. “Get your arse out of that bed you’re not even sleeping in or I will drag you, so help me God.”

Pick glares at him. He gets like that when Farley takes the Lord’s name in vain; used to be he’d give a little lecture, too. Farley’s mostly broken him of that habit, but he always found the glare sort of endearing. 

“Right now?” Pick says. “He just left to go find Lieutenant Blake. I don’t want to get in the middle of that.”

“Well that’s nice for the two of them,” Farley says. “And _after_ they’re done canoodling, we’re going to talk to Sarge. So _get up.”_

Normally Pickering would put up more of a fight. He’s another one that looks like you could break him in half like a toothpick for all that he looms over most of the platoon, but he’s -- well, he’s not mean, he’s never been that, but there’s steel to him anyway. Normally he wouldn’t let Farley do whatever the hell Farley wanted without arguing more about it, but he’s also been right fucked since the graveyard and that’s basically the problem.

“So where are they?” Farley asks Pick. For the time being, Pick doesn’t need Farley’s hand all twisted in his tunic to drag him forward; he’s following Farley without much more than muttering under his breath.

Pick grunts. “The Captain’s meeting with all the Lieutenants, remember? That’s where he went.”

“In Richards’s quarters or at the battalion headquarters?”

“In Richards’s, of course.”

Farley makes a beeline for there, then. And yeah, he doesn’t want to get in the middle of Blake and Sarge checking each other over to make sure they’re mostly back in one piece, but there’s nothing wrong with _waiting._ Not even waiting _obviously._

Fortunately, they don’t have to. As they’re coming up to the building, the Sergeant himself steps out, side-by-side with a ghost -- a familiar ghost. Farley just barely restrains himself from doing that internal pull of _get over here you fuckin’ wanker_ because this isn’t any random dead soldier, it’s the Lieutenant’s dead baby brother -- Sarge’s friend. 

“Sergeant Schofield!” he calls. Farley would never admit it, but it is unbearably relieving to see the man again, beanpole stance and eerie stare and all. 

The Sergeant sees them and brightens a bit. He steps lighter and actually _smiles_ at the two of them. “Lance Corporal Farley, Private Pickering,” he says, polite and proper as ever once they’re close enough for not shouting. “It is good to see you both. I wanted to thank you for getting me to the aid station in time; you saved my life.”

“Er,” Farley says, somewhat taken aback.

“No, we didn’t,” Pickering says quietly in Farley’s silence. “Sir. It was that dog, not us.”

For a moment, the Sergeant’s smile stays, as though pasted in place -- then it melts into the more familiar blank expression the man usually wears, the one that had Farley fooled for a long time that there weren’t much more going on in his mind than emptiness. “In a way,” Sarge says neutrally. “I still wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t gotten me to the station, though.” 

“Right,” Farley says, because he doesn’t know what to say to all this and has more important things on his mind. “You’re welcome. Now can you return the favor and help Pickering here out?” Pickering makes a quiet “eep” noise at that, so Farley tugs him forward. 

The Sergeant’s eyebrows rise fractionally, but he lets the subject go. He turns his attention to Pickering. “The Lieutenant mentioned you were having a difficult time of it,” he says, not unkindly. “Is that still the case?” 

Pickering fidgets. “I’m alright in a fight,” he says, reluctantly. Farley wants to smack his face into the nearest wall, that’s how blatantly it’s a lie.

The Sergeant notices that Pickering isn't telling the whole truth, though. He frowns, and then casually looks around; and Farley realises they’re still out right in front of the building that houses their Captain, and most of the Lieutenants for all the companies, and this isn’t actually that private a space.

“Why don’t we find somewhere quieter?” Farley interjects in his best officer-speak. “I know a spot just a bit away from here.”

Farley thinks he catches a faint -- and real -- smile on Sarge’s face at his suggestion. Pickering just shuffles unhappily.

There is indeed a small spot, not too far away -- it’s in the middle of a blown-up house, which is why no one bothers to stay. It’s been useful as a contraband drop-off site. As it is midafternoon and the area around it is too busy to be particularly helpful with such trades, they have it to themselves for the moment.

“Right,” the Sergeant says. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

The spectral Blake -- God, he’s so _young_ in the daylight -- bumps up against the Sergeant. “You too,” he says. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you wincing. The doctors said you still needed rest.”

Sergeant Schofield just sighs and seats himself on some sturdy chunk of rubble. Pickering folds himself up tailor-style on the ground and picks at the dirt; Farley elects to lean against a mostly intact pillar, reluctant from sheer principle. 

“Keep watch for us, Tom, would you?” Sarge asks. Little Blake gives a mock salute and ambles off. Then, to Pickering and Farley both, “What do you know already?”

Farley and Pickering trade looks. Farley knows he expected more beating around the bush with it -- he wasn’t expecting the casual way the Sergeant is treating the whole situation. He’s not sure what Pickering expected, but Pick looks both rattled and . . . not. It’s weird.

“We know that the dog was a Grim, and the Grim is Death,” Pickering says slowly. “And that there’s ghosts, that we can . . . put into things?”

“And that it’s a deadman’s duty to bring the men home,” Farley quotes, because that’s more of what concerns him. Knowing souls were actually real things was a shock, but it was nice to know that, unlike with the bodies, you could make sure your fellow soldiers got on their way to the afterlife safe enough. 

Sergeant Schofield blinks at both of them. “Alright,” he says. “And how are you at that?”

Farley shrugs. “It’s no trouble for me,” he says honestly, and waves at Pickering. “He can’t do it, though.”

Pickering twitches. “I haven’t tried,” he says, strained. “I -- I just don’t -- ” And whatever the Sergeant was expecting, it definitely wasn’t Pickering breaking down entirely. Farley wasn’t, either, but he’d also known it had only been a matter of time: his friend has been cracking for weeks.

Farley just barely starts to move -- sure he’s taken aback, but he’s got good reflexes -- but, well, the Sergeant is there already, and Farley would swear on his life that the man is a father because Lord, the man has the act down in such a way that Farley would swear it was real even if his own had only ever walked out on him and his Mum. Sergeant Schofield is off his rubble in a second and kneeling in front of Pickering the next, and then he’s enveloped the tallest Private in the Company in this massive embrace that somehow conveys reassurance.

Pickering cries. It’s ugly. Farley lets him have some privacy and gets up to go talk to baby Blake.

. . . the baby Blake who gives him a right sideways look, but makes room for Farley to lean against what’s left of a wall. Huh.

“So what’s your story?” Farley says after an awkward silence. It’s his go-to for starting up cold conversations when you haven’t already shared things like violence or bowel movements. This boy was right chatty when Farley last saw him; it is positively unfair that he’s so tight-lipped now.

“Beg pardon?” Blake says, very nearly as posh as his older brother.

“How’d you die? The Lieutenant never said,” Farley says bluntly. If Blake wants to play, Farley will oblige him.

“What, that?” The boy isn’t even fazed -- he’s a hard one. “Stabbed. German pilot we were trying to help.”

Farley does his best not to stare, no matter how harebrained it sounds. He takes it back; Blake’s little brother is an idiot. “That’s fucked,” he settles for. “What’d you try helping him for?”

Blake shrugs. He doesn’t look that put out by it, but he’s been dead -- oh, over a year now? Yeah, must be. “He was on fire,” he says simply. “He crashed into a barn and we pulled him out of the wreckage.”

“And he stabbed you,” Farley repeats slowly. What a stupid thing to do, trying to help an enemy.

Blake turns and frowns at him, looking him up and down. “Yeah,” he says, and pulls his tunic aside -- and Farley’s seen mortal wounds before, so this doesn’t put him off, but -- Jesus. No wonder the Lieutenant and the Sergeant were losing their minds. “Happy, mate?”

“I’ve seen worse,” Farley says.

Blake nods in the direction of Pickering. “What’s up with him?” he asks, tugging his tunic back into place. It does nothing to cover the massive bloodstains all down his trousers, and Farley is now _acutely_ aware of their existence. Ugh, ghosts. “He always seemed good at keeping it together. Why’re the ghosts bothering him so much?”

“Why _wouldn’t_ the ghosts bother him so much?” Farley retorts. “It’s not every day you see blokes who’re supposed to be dead, y’know, _not_ being dead.”

“Well, yeah,” Blake says. “But is it that much of a change from seeing them die? There’s bodies everywhere.”

Farley frowns and chances a look back -- Pickering has gone from sobbing on the Sergeant’s shoulder to listening as the Sergeant talks quietly, so that’s a bit of an improvement. Anyway, Blake makes a point, sort of. After the first shock, Farley hadn’t had any trouble with ghosts -- dead is dead. It’s not like they’re able to do anything to him, and they can’t be hurt anymore, either. And yeah, Pickering has seen it that bad -- hell, he’s the first one to help with anyone who’s been hit. They keep telling him to see if he can’t join the medical corps, but he never tried.

“I think it’s the soul thing,” Farley says finally. “Maybe? I dunno. He’s religious, you know? Has a Bible and everything.”

“What, so like -- ghosts are souls, and that’s shocking?”

Farley shrugs, because it doesn’t really make sense to him. He wasn’t ever a huge believer, anyhow. “Or maybe it’s that they aren’t immediately safe?” he tries. “Lieutenant Blake made a big deal about not losing the ghosts and how important it was to catch them.”

“Huh,” Blake says and scratches at his head thoughtfully. “Yeah, alright. That makes sense. I mean, what with the rain ripping us up and all --”

“Wait, what?” Rain does _what?_

Five minutes’ worth of highly informative conversation later, Farley is reeling. Ghosts . . . can die again? Damn. Now he’s actually somewhat worried about the poor blighters. 

“Huh,” he says out loud. “Well if fuckin’ rain can make you all face that long good night, I’m going to have to do things different ain't I? I’ve just been making ‘em into a little ball and having ‘em float along after me.” It’s a lot easier than going to the trouble of putting them into objects. 

Blake looks a little stunned by that. “You just -- yank them? You mean, you don’t put them away at all? Doesn’t that get... I don’t know, wearing, having to keep them in mind all the time?”

Farley just scowls harder. “How is that any different than what I do already?” he demands. “I’ve got enough arseholes to look after, what’s one more?”

This makes Blake laugh. It startles them both, looks like -- guess the lad wasn’t expecting to find it that funny. “That’s fair,” Blake chortles. “More ‘n fair, even! Ha. I’ll have to share that with Will.”

“Share what with me?” the Sergeant asks from behind them. 

Farley twitches like mad, but manages to restrain himself from startling obviously. He turns around coolly, in control, while Blake says “Oh -- I’ll tell you later. It’s a good one.”

Sergeant Schofield looks so skeptical at that that Farley almost snickers, himself. He reins himself in masterfully. 

Pickering looks a lot better. Well, he still looks like he’s been crying his guts out, but . . . he seems a hell of a lot more settled, now. Farley resists the urge to go and do something dumb, like tousle his hair or something. He settles for shoving Pick lightly, instead. 

“You look better,” he says, rudely. “Get things all worked out?”

Pickering blinks at him. He’s got a thoughtful look on his face, the one he usually wears when he’s turning over some bit of Scripture in his head -- slotting something important into his understanding of the world. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think so.”

Sarge pats him on the shoulder. “If you need to talk it out again, just let me know,” he tells Pickering, and turns his attention to Farley. “How about you, Lance Corporal? Got anything you need to get off your chest about it?”

“No, he’s alright,” Blake puts in. “He’s taking it better than you ever did, probably!”

Sergeant Schofield ignores this; he seems to be waiting for an answer. Farley shakes his head, because Blake is right; he’s doing just fine.

“Then I’ll leave you two to it,” Sarge says, and that is the end of that. 

~ * ~

_April 24th, 1918 -- Villers Bretonneux, France_

The bone-jarring thwump of an explosion close by reverberates through him. With the whistling shriek of shells ringing in his ears, Will sits up with a scream. His side is on fire, he’s dying again -- and _this time --_

“Will!” Tom shouts in his face, and shakes him. “Will, wake up! Put on your mask!”

It’s not that the darkness clears, precisely -- it appears to be the middle of the night, still. But now that Will isn’t caught in the memory of being wounded a month ago, he is more aware. The shelling is real -- a bombardment has begun, possibly the prelude to the attack they had all been warned about. Beneath the thunder, there is the rattling buzz of the gas alert. Will can almost taste it on the breeze.

“Masks!” he shouts, fumbling to get his own detached from his webbing. “Get your masks on, now!” Gas is the worst of the weapons they face on the battlefield. At its worst, it kills men by tearing up their own lungs and drowning them on dry land; at its best, it is the lachrymatory sort of gas that just makes a man’s eyes run until they are blind. Either way, it is likely that the gas is being shelled directly onto them -- there will be no way to determine when it will be at their position.

Around him, his men are struggling to get their equipment sorted. Will helps one of the young replacements they’ve been sent -- Sanders, he thinks the boy’s name was -- who can’t seem to get the buckles undone; he makes quicker work of it than the boy and shoves the mask into his hands. 

A shell lands close -- Will isn’t sure how close, but the force of it is enough to knock everyone in this section of the trench flat. So long as the barrage is this thick, the Germans aren’t going to be storming down the trench, and in any case, they aren’t positioned on the front line. He signals everyone who looks to him to get into one of their dugouts, which at the very least will protect them from anything but a direct hit. 

They cram in. Will is one of the last ones to enter, making sure that their section of the trenches is cleared of anyone outside. He spots some of the shells’ payload -- a yellowish fog is creeping into the trench. Awful though it is to wear, the gas mask should be able to protect him. 

The men huddle. The downside to being in the dugouts is that, as the gas sinks, it settles in with them. They can’t dare take off the masks and it is torturous. The glass faceplates fog up and the rubberized hoods quickly become hot and heavy; the humidity makes it difficult to breathe. It is easy to fall for the illusion that there isn’t enough air, but if one breathes too fast, it is easy to panic, and it’s something Will has seen before -- men going mad with fear inside their masks, pulling them off for just one breath of air -- _a face full of dust, clogging his nose and mouth and he can’t breathe --_

“Breathe,” Tom snaps in his ear. It helps cut through Will’s fear. “Come on, Will, breathe slow. You are alive; you aren’t buried in that bunker. You’re not dying in a trench or a churchyard or a hospital, you are making no bargains with the Grim. Breathe in, slow -- yes, and out.”

Will nods; he’s heard. He listens and closes out everything for a good thirty seconds, just listening to Tom, and it does wonders to clear his head. He manages to pull his hand away from the mask and finds Tom’s instead. Will squeezes it tightly in gratitude. 

He looks around the dugout again, taking stock. In the time the world narrowed to the nightmare in his head, not much has changed. He clicks on his torch to count heads. Will isn’t sure who is with him in the dugout; it’s difficult to tell the men apart with their faces covered so. Some of the men fidget, but their neighbors or friends always stop them from tugging masks off. It seems that all the ones inside this dugout managed to get the masks on swiftly enough to prevent inhaling anything, and when Will checks them, he can’t see any who’ve puked inside their masks, at least.

The wait is interminable. They can do nothing but sit in the dimness and wait for the bombardment to ease. It is a nightmarish time as the minutes tick into an hour, and then into a second -- they can’t sleep like this to pass the time, can’t talk, can’t anything. 

Tom spends a great deal of it murmuring in Will’s ear. Will is intensely grateful for it; it keeps him focused on the present most of the time, and when it doesn’t, it’s distracting enough that he doesn’t immediately slip into the sort of memories that make one’s heart pound and panic.

At one point, a shell lands in their trench. It’s an earth-shaking rumble and half the doorway collapses, but nothing worse. Will hopes that the screaming he hears isn’t real. 

More than two hours later, the noise outside abruptly becomes less. And then it stays less. After 10 minutes it is clear that while there is still shelling going on, it is not on their positions directly.

They crawl out, emerging into the early-morning gloom of pre-dawn. The only fog around is the thick white morning fog that is usual for this time of year, and none of it is tinted yellow. Will chances it and pulls his mask off, ready to pull it back on immediately if he needs -- but he doesn’t smell any gas. He signals the men that it is safe to remove their gear and to take up their positions again; he is relieved that his dugout came through it all fairly unscathed, with only a few men with new stains on their trousers and none who’ve gotten a lungful of anything but their own exhalations.

It’s a glorious start to the morning. They are all well aware that the Germans will be attacking now; it is only a question of when. Will and Joseph hastily sort through the men, getting them straightened out and ready for what is to come. The Devons have been placed on support and counter-attack duty and they must be prepared for anything.

As he does this, Will feels his skin creep. In a lull between one man and the next, he finds himself looking to the east, towards the Front. He’s not sure why, but there is . . . something, and it is causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. He hasn’t the faintest idea what it is. It is annoyingly distracting.

“Are you alright?” Tom asks him when he notices.

It breaks Will’s concentration. “Can you feel that?” Will asks him, jerking a thumb in the direction he means. 

Tom frowns and looks towards the Front. “I don’t feel anything, no,” he says. “How about Joe? Or Farley or Pickering?”

Will turns to do just that when, with a creaking clank and the rumble of engines, a tank appears out of the fog and drives right over the section of the trench to the north of them. It is German and it hisses oddly. 

Someone coughs and chokes. “Gas!” a man screams. “Masks! Get your masks back on!”

It is then that Will feels his stomach drop out, and a deep fear rises up from his bones and takes a tight grip on his throat. For all the war that he has seen, this is new to him, a fresh horror. Black and metal, the tank looms, spewing out invisible gas -- probably lachrymatory he thinks distantly -- and it is near invulnerable as it crashes through the line and over wicker-edged trenches. This is not a monster any soldier could stand against. Will fears for himself and his company as the tank disappears over the trench line and its thudding machinery grows distant. 

After that, it devolves into chaos. Behind the first tank come others with their guns taking shots at men and machine guns and whatever else they can line up a shot on. Behind them come German infantry, ghosting out of the fog with guns raised and ferocious shouting. 

Frantically, 5th Platoon sets up barricades with whatever’s at hand to block off that end of the trench. Their orders are to hold the position. Joseph sends word down the line to the rest of B Company that the line has been breached through C Company’s positions, and where the hell did Middlesex and West Yorks go, weren’t they on the Front of the line?

The rest of the day passes grimly. Will collects a Company’s worth of ghosts by 9 in the morning -- he recognises men from C Company, mostly -- and that is before the spirits of 2nd West Yorks and 2nd Middlesex soldiers start to appear, attracted by the presence of four deadmen. To him and Joseph, it is completely unsurprising when word comes through around noon that the 2nd Devons’s headquarters was blasted up by a tank and that C and D Companies were completely overrun, and further, that neither the newly-rebuilt 2nd Middlesex nor 2nd West Yorks even had time to withdraw, so swiftly were they obliterated. 

Nevertheless, A and B company holds; and that is how things continue to stand when the night falls.

~ * ~

_April 28th, 1918 -- Pont Noyelles, France_

The march to billets in reserve _in the middle of the night_ , after the tenseness of action on the line, is the last straw. The 2nd Devons, already not fully recovered from the earlier engagement at the end of March and now, half the size they were previously, are thoroughly exhausted. When Captain Richards dismisses Joseph at four in the morning, red-eyed and dragging himself, Joseph doesn’t bother trying to find where they’ve put him up; he goes to where he knows 5th Platoon is, jammed into some sort of barracks with 6th Platoon, and when he can’t locate an empty cot, he crawls into Will’s bunk, nudging Will aside to make room. His Sergeant cracks an eye, sees who it is, and rolls over to make more space before falling back asleep.

Joseph can only presume that at 6, they are woken by Reveille; he doesn’t stir until Will shakes him awake at 7 for the morning exercises and breakfast. It is spent in a daze. Afterward, he and Will do their best to get the men back into barracks and not drafted into any work parties so that the men can get some more rest -- or at least that is how Joseph remembers it later; it is entirely possible that it is just Will getting _him_ back so Joseph can sleep some more on Will’s bunk while Will writes letters and keeps watch.

Joseph wakes up a second time at --

“What time is it?” he asks, bleary even now. It doesn’t feel like he’s gotten nearly enough sleep.

“Half-past ten,” Will tells him quietly. “Come on -- runner’s here for you.”

Joseph looks past Will to the runner, standing politely a few feet away. He hands Joseph a message as soon as Joseph motions to him to give it over.

“It’s Richards,” Joseph says, skimming to the bottom for the signature. “He needs to see me . . . damn. Now. I need to change.” He gets up and starts to reach for a uniform, and then remembers that he’s still in 5th Platoon’s billet and he hasn’t a clue where his own things are. 

Will pats his shoulder. “A shave will be enough,” he says firmly. “There’s a mirror in the corner -- I’ll see if I can’t find you some water.”

In fifteen minutes’ time, Joseph, now feeling much more alert, has located and is outside of Richards’s quarters. The orderly -- a new one, Joseph sees; he wonders if the last one was a casualty -- nods and knocks for him, letting him in as soon as Richards yells for him to enter. 

“Sir,” Joseph says, coming to attention as soon as he comes in.

“Yes, yes,” Richards says. He seems oddly awake -- he’s got a manic energy to him as though he has downed a pill of Forced March, but the shadows under his eyes speak otherwise as to his state of rest. Still, he smiles cheerfully and acknowledges Joseph’s salute and motions for him to sit. The orderly comes in with two cups that are mismatched, but aren’t the tin mugs of the mess kit.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Blake, but I’ve a proposition to make to you,” Richards says, pulling out a bottle of what looks like whiskey. He doesn’t have it in the decanter he normally uses, which means either he hasn’t had time to unpack yet or, Joseph judges, more likely, Richards doesn’t think it worth it to unpack, which means they are moving out relatively soon. He pours it out into the glasses and hands one to Joseph.

“Any conversation that starts with ‘I’ve a proposition to make you’ and a healthy dose of alcohol is sure to be a good one,” Joseph says, very dry. His hands haven’t started shaking -- yet -- but he drinks anyway; they’ve not long until lunch, and he’s sure he’ll need a drink sooner or later. He snorts a little as the thought occurs to him: “And what makes you think I was sleeping?”

Richards makes a rude noise. “I know what it looks like when you sleep in your uniform,” he says.

Joseph groans at the reminder. “God, don’t remind me,” he says. “I was cropsick clear through the afternoon.”

Richards waves it off with a wry grin. “Anyway, I’ve some news!” he says. “I’ve been promoted to Major and transferred to the 2nd West Yorks. They’re desperately lacking; of all the men who survived our time on the line a month ago, less than half made it through the battle four days past. They’re scrambling to find officers at short notice, and the man who’s been promoted to Colonel personally requested me as his second.”

Joseph blinks. “Oh, excellent,” he says once he processes it, genuinely pleased. “That’s exactly what you wanted, isn’t it? Congratulations, Benjamin!”

Richards practically beams at him. “It’s my overwhelming charm and skill,” he says piously. “That and my natural good looks --”

“-- and sociability and modesty, yes,” Joseph adds, amused. He taps his glass against Richards’s and they both drink.

Joseph thinks he knows where this is going, now, as his brain has apparently finally decided to wake up. With the slaughter of nearly all of Middlesex and West Yorks and with half of the 2nd Devons in disarray, it makes sense that they are reorganising throughout the Brigade. He waits for Richards to continue. 

“Now here’s where my proposal comes in, Blake,” Richards says. “I want you as my replacement for Captain of B Company.”

Joseph nods; it makes sense. Joseph is the senior Lieutenant of B Company. Even so --

“Langley? Clive?” he says, scrambling for more time to think.

Richards grimaces. “Langley’s out for good,” he says reluctantly. “He took one in the back; from what I’ve heard, he’s still alive, but he won’t be returning if he makes it through. Clive is back in the hospital for -- of all things -- taking one in the arse. He hasn’t any luck, anyway.”

Joseph would like to say yes. Joseph would _really_ like to say yes. It is a sign that he is doing his job well, and an acknowledgement of his worth; and even more, Joseph _knows_ he can do it better than any of the other Lieutenants now. He certainly knows B Company better than whatever fresh-faced green officer the Army might send to fill the gap. 

Additionally, advancing in the ranks is what is expected, on some level; this is his career after all. Joseph may have turned it down once because he wanted to stay with 5th Platoon, but he knows they are in capable hands with Will -- 

\-- Joseph’s thoughts come to an abrupt halt. But would Will be in capable hands with a new Lieutenant? That is a serious concern. If there is a new Lieutenant, who notices his Sergeant has odd habits, there may be talk -- there may be trouble. Joseph already put Will through it once before and he is not going to leave Will to face it again.

“Who would take over 5th Platoon?” he asks.

Richards gives him a look that says, patently, he knows what Joseph is hung up on. “I suppose anyone you wanted to, as Captain,” he says mildly. “If you want some advice, I’d suggest Schofield. You’ll certainly find trouble if he stays a Sergeant when you become a Captain; whoever becomes Lieutenant will likely resent the both of you for it, probably enough to report you for fraternization.” 

Undoubtedly so; Joseph knows he and Will have managed to keep up their friendship only because Joseph _is_ Will's commanding officer. But at the suggestion of Will being a Lieutenant -- Joseph is politely aghast. “Is that even possible?” he asks. Will could certainly handle it, but he’s only a Sergeant -- nowhere near senior enough to be considered for such a promotion. 

Richards frowns at him. “Are you not awake yet? Aren’t you two friends?” he says, impatiently. “He’s got the education for an officer’s promotion -- the man went to grammar school. It’s on his attestation papers.”

. . . Joseph did not think of that. “Oh,” he says. “Erm. It hasn’t come up, really.”

“Well, there you are, then,” Richards replies with a shrug, cooling off as quickly as he flared.

Joseph rubs his forehead. This all follows, and it is a neat solution. But if it was on his attestation papers, the Army has surely approached him before about being an officer -- would Will want to be promoted, even now? Why would he turn it down in the first place? 

Because he has a family -- of course! It’s so blazingly obvious Joseph is briefly annoyed he hasn’t already put it together. At the start of the war, officers hadn’t been granted separation entitlement -- the pay that was given to a soldier’s family to offset his absence -- as they were expected to have income from their own businesses or estates already. 

That has changed. Joseph knows that officers (Lieutenants and Captains, at least) were now granted allowances for any children they might have, which means -- yes. Joseph knows he can persuade Will to take the commission. 

“I’ll be happy to do it,” he says. “I’ve got to convince Schofield first, but -- I’ll do it.”

Richards claps his hands. “Wonderful,” he says, and he genuinely sounds pleased, too. Joseph notices the tension easing out of Richards’s shoulders and realises that, for whatever reason, this is a relief to Captain -- Major, actually -- Major Richards. Richards holds up his glass and toasts Joseph: “To Captain Blake!”

“To Major Richards,” Joseph replies more firmly, and drinks to it all with growing cheer.

~ * ~

_May 1st, 1918 -- Pont Noyelles, France_

_Dearest Ellie,_ Will begins. _I know I wrote to you but a week past when I successfully returned to my regiment, but recent events have made it necessary to write again. I suspect your maths will note this before my letter arrives, but indeed, something has happened: I have been promoted to 2nd Lieutenant, and am now in charge of the platoon._

Will pauses and fingers the stiffness of the new uniform he’s got on. It’s disturbing, a little, in how different it is, which doesn’t seem to make much sense to him -- he’s been friends with Joseph for long enough to be very aware of what a Lieutenant’s uniform is like -- but wearing one is a completely different matter.

For one thing, the uniform itself is -- new. He purchased it yesterday, using the £ 50 kit allowance he was granted for a Lieutenant’s tunic and trousers both freshly turned out by the Division’s tailors. It is somewhat fitted to him, personally -- and wasn’t that an odd experience? -- and it’s not a bad job, for all it was a rush one. Will suspects they had some uniforms already made and just made some small adjustments for it to fit his frame properly. It’s what he would have done. And as requested, his stars are on his shoulders; he doesn’t care if it’s only grudgingly sanctioned by the Brass, everyone knows that the Bosche snipers use the officers’ cuffs’ stars to tell whom to aim at. 

Another change that’s taking some time to get used to is how Will no longer wears webbing everywhere. It’s not his job to carry all his own gear in a fight -- that’s the Company Lieutenants’ batmen’s jobs. Will’s batman is a stout and sober man named Jacobsen, who was acting as Perry’s batman, and since Will is here and Perry’s replacement is not, things sorted themself out. --Anyway, Will is now walking around and carrying forty pounds less weight than he is used to, and one would think it would be a blessing being as he is still newly discharged from the hospital and all, but -- it is just _odd._

Will shakes the itch out of his hands and turns back to his letter. _More importantly,_ he writes, _my pay has nearly trebled. I’ve instructed them to send the greatest part of it home to you all._

Goodness, has it trebled. As a Sergeant, Will was entitled to two shillings, four pence per day -- easily twice the pay of a Private. As a 2nd Lieutenant, or a junior Lieutenant, his pay has jumped to seven shillings, six pence per day. It’s an astronomical increase. 

Practically speaking, Will knows that the higher salary is due to how Army Command expects the officers to live. Officers have always been upper class, and expected to continue some semblance of that privilege even in the rougher conditions of the Army. And, if Will were planning on using his promotion to further his social connections, he would certainly find himself utilising the greater part of his salary on a more luxurious lifestyle in an effort to further his relationships with other officers.

That does not interest him, however. Will has very little desire to elevate his social status. The extra money can do its best work at home, with his family.

 _Before you fret about the former Lieutenant, Joseph Blake, rest assured that he is also promoted and our new Captain,_ Will adds next. _Both he and the former Captain (one Benjamin Richards, now a Major) recommended me for the promotion, and the Colonel saw fit to approve it._

It is still bemusing to Will, frankly. He understands that he is as qualified as anyone else for the position; so late in the war, half of the officers they have these days are merely men who have proven to be competent on the battlefield. There are simply too few of the traditional gentlemen -- or even the traditionally educated -- to fill the need. 

Then again, Will is also surprised he’s even still alive. It is becoming rapidly apparent to him, particularly in light of the losses suffered by the 2nd Devons just six days ago -- two of B Company’s Lieutenants as casualties, losing two Captains (C Company’s Dalton was killed on the way to a dressing station; A Company’s Hallewell had his leg blown off), and nearly four hundred fighting men killed or missing -- that he has been extraordinarily fortunate, surviving without even becoming physically disabled as long as he has. Even beyond how the Grim has intervened, it is only by chance that his platoon has not yet been set in the path of a determined German offensive or selected at random by High Command for a foolhardy charge.

Will’s skin prickles. It is an unnerving thing, to have to contemplate one’s own end, and it is even more so when he knows very well what the consequences of his death will be. Will’s luck just needs to run out once more, on or off the battlefield, and his chance to go home and see his family again will be spent. Then he will have to wait a further hundred years before he can join them, wherever human spirits go after their final passing.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Joseph, who comes in without prompting, now outfitted as Captain. His uniform is also new, but he opted to keep his stars on the cuffs of his uniform -- at least, the one he wore off the line. Where Will thriftily purchased only one tunic, Joseph bought a spare for the field as well, and that one had the stars of his rank on his shoulders. 

Joseph takes one look at Will and frowns. “Something on your mind?” he asks.

“Hmm? Oh,” Will says. He looks at his half-finished letter to Ellie. “No, just finishing a letter to my wife.”

“Should I come back later?”

“No, no,” Will says, twisting in his seat. He points to the trunk Jacobsen procured from somewhere, intended for Will’s spare things when he was on the line. “I’ve some brandy in there, Richards gave it to me -- help yourself. I only need to add a few more lines.”

“Give her my regards,” Joseph says, and makes himself at home. Will thinks of what to add. This is his third note home since he first began writing them and as of yet, he hasn’t received any response; his fingers itch to enquire about it, but he suspects that Ellie is having a hard time believing he will keep this newfound habit. Perhaps she doesn’t want to scare him off by sending anything.

He settles for adding _Tom and Joseph both send their regards. Love, Will,_ and folds it up. He has an envelope already addressed and set aside -- he seals the note and leaves it on the corner of his desk. If Jacobsen doesn’t stealthily put it in the post, Will can send it in the morning.

“Here,” Joseph says, setting a glass next to Will. He takes a seat in the spare chair in the room.

Will is supposed to be bunking with Perry’s replacement; as the replacement isn’t yet here, he gets the room to himself. It is quite the change to go from sharing a billet with several others to being isolated so, and Will is not sure if he likes it yet; the only benefit thus far is that he and Tom don’t have to worry about finding privacy to exchange real conversation anymore.

“Cheers,” Will says, taking the drink and thunking it companionably against Joseph’s. They both sip. What Richards gave him is fairly decent stuff, Will judges, but all alcohol still burns on the way down, so he finds it hard to tell precisely how decent it really is. 

“Where’s Tom off to?” Joseph asks, leaning back into his seat with a sigh.

Will mirrors him, resting one arm on the small table. “Oh, off chatting with Pickering, probably,” he says. “That, or he’s trading tips with Farley on how to talk a fellow out of his week’s pay. He left an hour ago, anyway.”

Joseph shakes his head. “It was a mistake, introducing those two,” he says.

Will shrugs. “It keeps him busy,” he says, dryly. “And it gives my ears a rest, though you’ll never catch me saying that to him.”

His friend nods to the letter. “And time to write to your wife,” Joseph says slyly.

Will coughs on his next mouthful. “What is with you two?” he demands, not actually that offended. “I swear, the both of you think being married is nothing but letters of a most illicit nature.”

“It’s not?” Joseph asks innocently. “In that case, what good is it --” He can’t finish the sentence -- he breaks off laughing at whatever face Will is making. 

“And how about your Mrs Spencer, eh?” Will retorts. “Got any good letters from her lately?”

To his surprise, Joseph flushes and coughs. “Er,” he says. “No! No, nothing lately.”

“You did!” Will accuses, starting to laugh himself. “Don’t lie, I see it plain on your face.”

“Fine!” Joseph throws his unoccupied hand up dramatically. “She sent me some -- a photo. Here.” He digs it out and hands it to Will, who whistles, impressed both by her clear attractiveness and by her obvious force of personality, to act so forward. 

“Are you going to send her one of you?” Will asks, handing it back.

Joseph shrugs as though it is of no consequence to him. “Well, I figured I’d get one taken of the new uniform for my parents,” he says, carefully casual. “I can just get a second at the same time.”

“Good,” Will says firmly. “She sounds like a good woman. You deserve some happiness.”

Joseph is touched by this, but of course it isn’t comfortable to wallow in it. “You know, I’ve never seen yours,” he says, pointedly clearing his throat. “I know you’ve photos --”

It’s Will’s turn to flush a little. He doesn’t show his photos of his family off, ever -- he has a hard time looking at them himself. But Joseph did show Will his . . . and this shyness is ridiculous. Honestly, the man has watched Will dying in a trench; Joseph is certainly not going to use this against him, somehow.

“I suppose not,” he says, uncomfortably aware that the silence has gone on a little too long -- Joseph’s smile is slipping. Will sets down his drink and fumbles with the stiffness of his new collar until he can get it back enough to pull out his tin. He pops open the lid and finds them, his family --

\-- they are so perfect. His wife, who looks so soft and is anything but; his daughters, both beautiful and full of life --

Will hands the photos over hastily and hurriedly takes a drink to cover his reaction. It’s silly, being this moved by photographs. 

Joseph has certainly noticed, but he’s politely pretending he hasn’t. He is gentler when he speaks again, though he keeps his tone light. “These are Hortensia and Calpurnia, right? Tom told me their names -- he thinks they are absolutely absurd --”

Will laughs, a bit watery. “Oh yes,” he says, grateful to talk about something else. And it’s a very entertaining story, anyway. “My wife --” he taps her photo “-- her given name is Mary. Mary Eleanor, after her grandmothers. Her parents owned the bookstore and she grew up reading all the stories in them, and -- well in stories, you don’t often have heroes whose name is Mary. She hated it . . .”

He tells Joseph the whole of it, from her early insistence that all of the neighborhood children call her Eleanor (“closest friends were permitted to call her Ellie”) to the compromise he worked out with her to appease their parents when it came to naming the children. “She got to pick the first names,” Will explains. “I picked the middle names -- and I picked our mother’s names for both of them, or else I think they would have rioted. Hortensia Rose, for Ellie’s mother; Calpurnia Claire, for mine. Tenny and Callie.” 

Joseph finds it all fascinating, for some reason. He listens the whole way through with obvious enjoyment. Will isn’t sure what to think of that, so when he finishes with the story he busies himself pouring them both another drink. 

“They’re lovely, Will,” Joseph says sincerely, giving back the photos. Will hates to put them away again, but they’re safer in the tin anyhow, so he briskly shuts them away. 

“Thank you,” he says quietly. But -- enough of that. Will casts around for another topic. “How’s your first day as Captain been?”

Joseph blinks and sighs a little; some of the relaxed air leaves him and he sits up straighter. “As expected,” he says. “The reorganisation has wrapped up as best as we are able; we’re getting our new men within the next week.”

“Huzzah,” Will mutters. Well, as Lieutenant, it’s not really Will’s job to get the new men to integrate with the rest of the platoon; no, Farley will have a field day as the new Sergeant, breaking the lot of the new men in.

“Yes. We’re getting quite a few new men . . .” Joseph trails off, looking into the distance a moment. A tic starts up in his jaw. “And we are being moved elsewhere, starting on the 3rd.”

Something about the way he says it sets off an alarm. “Off the line?” Will asks, also straightening.

Joseph shakes his head. “They’ve no reserves to cover the relief of an entire Division,” he says. He does his best to keep his tone neutral, but there is a deep bitterness to the way his mouth twists downwards. “We’re being sent to a new sector on the Front.”

Will stares, shocked -- and is suddenly very, very afraid. “Our Brigade has been all but wiped out twice in the space of a month and they’re not letting us have time to recover?” Will says slowly, incredulously. “We’re being sent back to the line?”

Joseph loses his composure. “No, they’re not, and yes, we are,” he snaps. His hand shakes where it holds his drink and he stops to glare at it, working to restrain himself. 

“Sorry,” Will says after a moment of wrestling his tongue to something more gracious. And then he repeats it with more feeling, because not only has Will ruined the mood of their evening, this isn’t even Joseph’s decision. As the Captain, his job is merely to carry it out, regardless of how he feels about it. “I’m sorry, Joseph. I wasn’t thinking.”

Joseph’s jaw works for a moment before he visibly sets it aside. “Accepted,” he says shortly. Then he sighs and rubs his face. “Sorry, Will -- I’ve nothing but a short temper these days.” 

Will stares into his glass. Everything seems to have soured and he flounders for a moment, trying to think of what to do.

Well -- there is one thing that is for certain. Will isn’t going to waste his chance to live the rest of his life with his family; he intends to survive this war. No matter what.

“We’ll get through it,” he says, and he doesn’t recognise his voice. It’s grim and there is a determination in there that he wasn’t aware he had. But Will feels it now, hot and bright in his chest; it makes it easy to look Joseph in the eye and repeat it: “We will get through this, Joe.”

Joe looks at him. His expression shifts; whatever uncertainty was in him before seems to melt away as Will watches. “I’m going to hold you to that,” Joseph says at last, and salutes Will with his glass. Will returns it.

They drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art credit to the GLORIOUS PAVUVU! Man, isn't it wonderful? We've been sitting on this for over a month now :D _  
> [Artwork](https://www.artstation.com/artwork/e0YQBJ)  
> _
> 
> Anyway: cheers, dear readers, cheers! I think we all know what’s coming next . . . and it will be coming soon! Our next update is not going to be an interlude as usual; rather, it will be a full plot chapter. 
> 
> Since my schedule is also picking up next week -- I have a grant workshop for history teachers that’s going to be zooming from 8-1 Monday through Thursday -- the next chapter won’t be up within three or four days, hahaha! BUT next Thursday is Joe’s (Richard Madden’s) birthday. We are aiming to have it posted then!
> 
> IN THE MEANTIME, if you want to read more fics where Will has cripplingly nifty supernatural powers, writeyourownstory has written this FABULOUS work called [and there you were (always on my mind)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583738) where Scho is a telepath, but Blake badgers his way into Schofield’s life anyway. 
> 
> But as it all stands . . . STAY TUNED! And feel free to rant in the comments or on tumblr: I'm @lizofalltrades and Pavuvu is @marbat!
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
>   1. So wait, how many men were lost? West Yorks and Middlesex, what??  
>  \- Both of these battalions lost between 60-90% of their men on two separate occasions: once during the fighting on the line from March 24th - April 2nd, and then again, as depicted here on April 24th. It was pretty bad. They were both in the same Brigade (the 23rd) with the 2nd Devons; they all relieved the line at the same time and would have been on rest at the same time and the officers all would have known each other. This is why both Will and Joseph are well aware of the situation and their relative circumstances. 
>   2. So how many did the 2nd Devons lose in the battle here?  
>  \- Two companies (I chose to make them C and D Company) were pretty much wiped out during this attack. Some officers and men did survive, but the majority did not. After this battle, the 2nd Devons took two full days to reorganise themselves -- they were down to half-strength.
>   3. . . . is Captain Richards on drugs in that one bit?  
>  \- Yep. "Forced March" was a brand of pill made of cocaine. (Cocaine was still considered good for your health at this point.) Mostly pilots used it, apparently, buuuuut it was also pretty popular with the Infantry -- it a) made you less hungry and b) made you less sleepy, both of which were VERY USEFUL for soldiers!  
>  . . . DON'T DO DRUGS, KIDS.
> 



	10. nwl: May 6th - 31st, 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (the Battle of the Aisne, at last.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ????????? Most of you knew this was coming . . .
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOSEPH BLAKE (RICHARD MADDEN)

_May 6th, 1918 -- Dravegny, France_

Will ducks into Battalion Headquarters. He just received the message to report here not ten minutes ago -- a runner came while he was inspecting the billets -- and he’s wondering what he’s been called in for.

This Battalion Headquarters here is situated in a repurposed building. Despite not being underground, the windows have all been covered over with old trench papers for security purposes, making the interior about as dim as it would be were it buried. Two soldiers with the blue-striped red triangle badges of the Division’s Signallers are hunched over a cluster of wires in the hallway, the older one poking at them and the younger one cursing under his breath. 

Another Lieutenant comes out of the door to the right. “How have you lot not got the phones working yet?” he demands of the Signallers. 

Will doesn’t stick around to hear the rest of it. He can spot the orderlies further down the hall that indicates where the majority of the officers must be, and heads for them. “Lieutenant Schofield, here to see Colonel Hepburn,” he tells them at the door. The one that looks like someone took offense to his face looks Will over and nods him in.

Inside, he is reminded of other Battalion Headquarters he has been inside. It is just as dark and cramped, tables covered in maps and aerials and ripped-up telegraph messages. There are some men in the corners of the room -- a few Lieutenants, it looks like. Colonel Hepburn is seated in a chair talking to the Major over a cup of tea -- served in some chipped china cups that, despite their battered appearance, stand out far and above from the usual tin mugs. 

Will comes to attention as they turn to look at him, saluting. “Lieutenant Schofield, Sir,” he says by way of introduction. “You wanted to see me, Sir?”

“Ah, yes,” Hepburn says, standing. “Come on over; take a seat. We’re waiting on Captain Blake as well --”

The door swings open again. It’s Joseph, who comes inside with “Captain Blake, Sir” and his own crisp salute. He darts a startled look at Will when he notices him.

“Perfect timing,” Hepburn says with satisfaction. “As I was saying, Captain, come on over -- take a seat. Gyles, can you get some more tea?”

“Yes Sir,” says one of the orderlies in the room, and leaves. 

Will looks over at Joseph, wondering if he knows what this is all about. Joseph shakes his head slightly in response; he hasn’t any idea why the Colonel wants to see both of them. They both take the seats indicated at the table.

“No Corporal Blake today?” Hepburn enquires politely, seating himself. 

Will _really_ doesn’t know what to say to that. Joseph sort of -- freezes in his seat. He shoots Will a frantic glance. 

“Er,” Will says and opts for clearing his throat. The door opens and closes behind them; the orderly has returned with tea. “No, Sir, he’s erm. Gone to explore the area, I believe.” As the orderly hands Joseph a teacup, he adds, “We’ve never been in this sector before.”

“I’m sure he will enjoy it, then,” Hepburn says genially. “The South part of the Front is vastly more pleasant, in my opinion; it’s a great deal warmer, at least.” 

“Not as blasted up, either,” the Major -- Boden, Will remembers finally -- contributes, flipping through some papers absently. Will doesn’t know the man very well, but from the careful grooming of his enormous mustache, the meticulous presentation of his uniform, and the man’s elegant sprawl, he suspects that the man is upper class -- more along the lines of Joseph’s social sphere. 

The orderly hands Will a teacup as well. Will sips. Pleasantly, it tastes like actual tea. 

Colonel Hepburn gets to it as soon as the orderly retreats. “As it happens gentlemen, I have called you here for a specific reason,” he says, tone becoming more businesslike. “You are aware that we are rebuilding the Division as a whole on the line very soon, and that a period of training will commence when we are settled further south.”

He pauses. “Yes, Sir,” Joseph says for them both, as he is the one who is the more informed of the two; Will knows a little about it, but the training programme is usually up to the Captains, and he hasn’t been involved in any of the planning for it.

The Colonel nods. He looks at Will. “Lieutenant Schofield, I’m pulling you for a week to take charge of specialist training,” he says. “Given our last month, my recommendations to the General have finally been given consideration; he has approved a programme for the recruiting and training of deadmen for the Division as a whole.”

Will feels himself freeze, now, as Hepburn continues. “I’d have you do it, Captain, but I know you are new to your position and the Lieutenant is already familiar with his,” he says. In the corner of his eye, Will notes that Joseph twitches and looks sharply at the Colonel, but fortunately, he seems to restrain himself from obviously looking around the room at the men all present.

Hepburn shakes his head at them. “Relax, Captain, Lieutenant,” he says. “They’re all busy enough as it is. This is a matter that doesn’t leave this room.”

“Of course, Sir,” Will says after a moment. He trades a look with Joseph -- how did Hepburn learn about him? -- and he forces his tongue to loosen some more. “Sorry, Sir. You just . . . took us by surprise.”

The Colonel accepts it. “Your responsibility in this matter will be to find at least one man from most of the battalions in the Division -- excluding ours, of course, but also the 1st Worcester in the 24th Brigade, and the 2nd East Lancaster and 2nd Royal Berks in the 25th -- and at least one from each of the Field Ambulances,” he says to Will. “The General has left this to my discretion, and I haven’t the time to make inquiries myself. You have until the 11th to find those whom you think would be best suited for the position; I recommend you make the most of your time for the next few days before we march to our new sector.”

“Yes, Sir,” Will says. He can’t think of anything else to say. He hasn’t even the faintest idea of where to _begin._ Surely there can’t be _that_ many men with his abilities -- how is the Colonel expecting him to find them -- 

. . . unless that isn’t what Hepburn means. Will feels a chill settle over him as he puts it together. He isn’t being ordered to suss out who’s already ‘qualified’ -- he’s being ordered to facilitate meetings between men and the Grim. 

“Sorry --” he bursts out, barely remembering to keep it proper, “-- Sir, are we . . . am I to _make_ them deadmen? We’re not just looking for men who’ve the abilities already?” 

Joseph makes some small movement that he aborts, quickly. Will can feel the weight of his gaze settle on Will -- they are both well aware of how drastically this can go wrong. 

Colonel Hepburn gives him a direct look. “It has become more necessary than ever that we have a deadman in each battalion,” he says, utterly serious. All the amiability has slid right out of him; every mark of tiredness he has masked is suddenly impossible to ignore, and Will sees that Hepburn is exhausted. He looks far older than he should be. “The situation of late has been untenable. It is not a solution we would choose had we any alternative.”

Hepburn isn’t wrong about the weight of the job of late. Will looks away and nods, swallowing his instinctive protest. 

“Now,” Hepburn says, watching them closely. “If you are aware of any men already equipped to deal with this, we can always work out transfers between units if you feel it would be better than recruiting new men . . .”

Will does his best not to react to that. It isn’t even a question. Farley is the Sergeant and Will isn’t going to settle for any of the other Lance Corporals or a brand new man -- not to mention, it’d be demoralising for the platoon. And Pickering is doing much better, but he’s not anywhere close to ready to do something of this scale -- and pulling him from 5th Platoon would not only infuriate Farley, it would be horribly frightening for Pickering himself. Will meets the Colonel’s gaze steadily instead and shakes his head. “I’m not aware of anyone outside this room who’d be suited for it,” he says, and drinks some tea in case the Colonel wants to pry further. 

Joseph clears his throat. “How do you recommend Lieutenant Schofield go about it?” he enquires, smoothly moving them away from that avenue of conversation. Bless him, Will thinks (only a touch deliriously), bless him, bless him, bless him. “Are we aware of any suitable candidates already?”

“Excellent question, Captain,” Hepburn says. He sighs and some life comes back into him. “As it happens, I’ve been able to notify all of the battalion commanders to get started on that -- they’ve been asked to have their Captains recommend one or two men per Company. Before the training period begins, your job is going to be speaking with these men and making the final selections from each battalion.” 

Will nods again. It’s not right to feel relief over something like this, but that makes this all significantly more manageable. “Yes, Sir,” he says. 

The Colonel picks up an envelope from the table and hands it to Will. “Your orders to this effect are enclosed,” he says. “Show them to the Colonels and they will make sure you get access to the candidates.”

Will takes it, grimacing a little at the uncomfortable memories of another set of orders. That was over a year ago; he walls off the feelings with the ease of long practice. 

“Once you’ve made your selections, report back to me,” Colonel Hepburn says briskly. “You will begin training them immediately when we reach our new sector within a week. I will see to it that the proper arrangements are made for you to have access to the necessary terrain.”

“Yes, Sir,” Will says. The conversation has come to an end; he stands as Hepburn stands and quickly finishes his tea. He and Joseph salute and are dismissed.

Neither of them try to talk until they are outside the Headquarters building entirely. Joseph is the first out, but he waits for Will, giving him a look. Will shakes his head. “Didn’t you promise me a drink this afternoon?” he suggests obliquely. He can’t see anyone watching them, but he feels paranoid about it anyway.

“That I did,” Joseph says, brushing up against Will’s shoulder as they fall into step with each other. “Should we call in Tom?”

“Tom will find us if he wants,” Will says, reaching for his friend already. He tugs at Tom’s presence, more of a call than a demand; it’ll get Tom’s attention, at least. If Tom isn’t otherwise occupied, he’ll find them soon enough.

Joseph’s quarters are fairly nice, all things considered. He gets them to himself, for one thing; he doesn’t need to chivvy Clive or any other roommate out. The cot is slightly larger, too, but that’s about all.

Once the door is closed, Joseph reaches for the bottle of brandy he has on his desk and pours himself something. His hands shake hard enough that it takes him a moment longer, fumbling all the while and cursing under his breath, than he would normally. Will chooses not to comment, but privately resolves to start doing that first so that Joe doesn’t work himself up into such a state for a bloody drink.

Instead, he takes the liberty of pouring himself one, briefly squeezing Joseph’s shoulder in sympathy. Will doesn’t pour too much, because he wants to think, but it’ll help give him cover when he needs time to do so.

Joseph’s hands are much steadier after a gulp or two, and he tosses his cap on the bed and runs his free hand through his hair. “It was Richards,” he says without preamble. “I should’ve guessed he’d go to Hepburn, since I mentioned him, but -- damn. D’you think there’ll be trouble?”

Will isn’t following. “What was Richards?” he asks.

“Richards who told Hepburn about me,” Joe says. He’s really distressed, now. “I -- it was a bad night, and -- and I told him about it. I’m sorry Will, I told him all about it. He’s my friend, I didn’t think he’d spread it around at all.”

“Joseph --” Will isn’t sure what to do with that yet, but watching Joe pace is setting his teeth on edge. “Look, why don’t you sit down?” he says instead, as soothingly as he can. “We can start at the beginning.”

Joseph nods, rattled, and seats himself in one of the chairs. It’s a surprisingly nice wing-backed armchair. Will pulls another more battered specimen closer, noting as he does so that the longer Joseph sits in his, the smaller he appears -- he looks like he expects the dressing-down of his life. It’s a little disturbing -- Joseph should not look so apprehensive.

Will coaxes the story out of him and -- alright. He can see why Joseph might fear Will would not be happy, because Will is _not_ happy to find out that Joseph had essentially betrayed Will’s trust. But his initial chill of instinctive panic dissipates swiftly enough. Will isn’t so blind as to not realise the tremendous strain Joseph has been under of late; in Joseph’s place, Will might well have done the same. Joe meant no harm by it, and at the time, it was what Joe needed. 

Will won’t begrudge his friend that, and says as much. Joseph still looks unhappy, though, so Will sifts through what he knows to try to suss it out. 

Rationally, Will knows full well that Hepburn isn’t going to transfer Will elsewhere, not with this training assignment now given to him. Joseph, too, is fairly safe; it would just be a hassle to try to replace him again. And Joseph knows all this. Which means that, were Will to make an educated guess, Joseph’s present distress is less due to uncertainty in their future and more due to Richards speaking to Hepburn about the matter. 

“I don’t think he would have gone to Hepburn with the intention of hurting you,” Will says, slowly. “How do we know that he told Hepburn you knew at all?” 

Joseph shrugs impatiently. “How else would he know I’ve got that skill now?” he says. “It’s not like I’ve been practicing it in front of him and we’ve taken care not to act untoward at all.” 

Abruptly, Will makes up his mind. “No,” he says decisively. “I don’t believe Richards would do something like this. The man’s very fond of you -- you two are friends. It could very well be that he simply asked Hepburn if what he’d heard about a deadman was true -- Hepburn may well have simply assumed you had it, which would mean we’ve just confirmed it by not contesting it at the meeting.”

Joseph groans. “Why is this such a mess?” he says, half muffled by the hands he’s covering his face with.

“Because why not? Everything else is,” Will replies, and winces at his sour tone. He makes an effort to soften it. “Look. See if you can’t track Richards down and just ask him yourself. My bet is that he was just trying to confirm the existence of deadmen so that he didn’t have to rotate you out for medical treatment.”

Joseph sighs. Then, briskly he smooths his hair out and sits up straight. “Alright,” he says, making a visible effort to set the topic aside and beginning a new line of discussion. “What are you going to do about this training?”

Oh, Christ. It’s Will’s turn to grimace. “I’ll start with the candidates, I guess,” he says reluctantly. “I’ll let Farley know I’m unavailable for the next few days -- will you be able to pop in and keep him from making the new lads cry too much?”

~ * ~

_May 8th, 1918 -- Dravegny, France_

Whatever his personal qualms about this assignment -- and Tom _knows_ Will has personal qualms about the whole thing, Will’s been going about with that extra-stiff posture all yesterday and today -- when he sets his hand to a task, he gets through it with a ruthless sort of efficiency. About an hour before supper, Will has just finished locating and speaking with the last of the recommended candidates.

Will thanks the man for his time and dismisses him. “What d’you think?” Tom asks, when Will doesn’t say anything, looking thoughtfully at the small list he’s been keeping.

“Not that one,” Will says after another moment, and crosses the name off the list decisively. “I can’t put my finger on it, but . . . not him.”

Tom hums in agreement. The bloke was nice, but he was -- a little too nice, almost. Specialist training rarely lasts longer than a week; these men will need to have the fortitude to stand on their own without support from Will fairly quickly. It would just be a waste of time if they broke under the strain immediately.

“Do you think you know who you’ll recommend?” Tom asks when his friend doesn’t say anything else.

Will stays looking at his list, mouth turned down. “I’ve an idea,” he says reluctantly. He sighs and shakes his head slightly, and puts the list into his pocket. “Come on then -- let’s go see how Joseph has fared. He said he was going to speak to Richards at lunch today.”

They stop by at Will’s quarters. Will shares them with Perry’s replacement, a younger man named Smith. Smith is a 1st Lieutenant, fresh from two months’ training as a 2nd Lieutenant in a reserve battalion, and still has that eagerness a lack of experience grants the newer men. He’s nice enough, Tom supposes, but he does tend to be a bit dramatic -- and he can’t seem to decide whether he should lord his higher rank over Will or defer to Will’s greater experience. It’s all very awkward. 

Fortunately, he is out. Will locates his things -- Tom exclaims when Will pulls a jar with honest-to-goodness gherkins out; he can’t _wait_ to try one! -- and is about to leave when he notices a letter on his desk. His batman, Jacobsen, must have left it for him. 

“It’s from Ellie!” Will says, startled -- and doesn’t even try to stop the smile that spreads over his face. He traces the writing lightly with his fingers, looking fondly at it. 

“Really? What’s it say?”

Will starts to open it, but hesitates. “I’ll look at it later,” he says regretfully, and gently puts it in his pocket. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to have Smith come barging in on me halfway through.”

Tom shudders. “Fair point,” he admits. “Read it at Joe’s, then.”

The orderly lets them into Joe’s quarters with no trouble; he’s a standing order to permit Will entry regardless of whether Joe is in or not. It raised some eyebrows, but after Will’s making it clear that under no circumstances were any of them to do more than launder Joe’s clothing and a few days of Will and Joe demonstratively doing nothing suspicious besides gossiping whilst Will mended things and Joe did paperwork, the orderlies seem to have forgotten their initial concerns. 

Joe is already in, though, humming cheerfully over something at the table -- looks like a letter. He sets the pen down when they come in and does a credible attempt at misdirecting their attention while he stuffs it out of sight once he spots Tom.

“Aha!” Tom knows immediately what’s going on. “You’re writing to that girl you like! Sophia, isn't it?” 

Joe is immediately on his guard, but he doesn’t deny it. “It’s none of your business if I am,” he says firmly.

But by now Tom has spotted the other part of it -- “Are those photos? Of you?” he demands. Oh, this is _great_ \-- Joe’s already starting to turn red! Tom leans over and manages to catch a look at them before Joe covers them with his hands, too. “Ohoho, in your Captain’s uniform and everything. You clean up nice. Shame you don’t bother too often --”

“That is _it,”_ Joe growls, and lunges for Tom, who completely forgets for a moment that his brother would just go through him, anyway -- he yelps and scrambles out of range on instinct. “Leave it alone, will you!” 

“What? Will’s got a letter too --”

 _“They aren’t those kinds of letters!”_ Will says, aggrieved, as Tom and Joe both remember that Joe can’t actually touch Tom anymore and they pause for a moment in wary assessment. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom sees Will isn’t that fussed; rather, he leans against the desk in the corner and pulls the letter in question out. 

Tom waves that off and keeps talking to Joe; it’ll give Will some time to read without interruption. “Well if you’re already sending her photos you’re getting pretty serious,” he teases his brother. “You still haven’t really told me about her, you know.”

“Because you’ll never shut up once I do,” Joe points out, correctly. “I showed you her photo and you spent three solid days following me around being the biggest arsehole about it.”

“Yeah, alright,” Tom concedes grudgingly. “I suppose the kissing noises went on longer than they should’ve.”

At that precise moment, just as Joe looks like he’s about to shout, Will makes the most peculiar wordless exclamation. It sounds like a cross between him choking on the slop they serve in the mess and him gagging on his own liquidising lungs (not that Tom would know what that sounded like, but he can imagine it, hypothetically). 

Diverted, Tom looks at his friend. Will is whiter than he’s ever been, and Tom’s seen him exsanguinated (that’s what the doctors called it) on a hospital bed in horrid light. He stares at the letter with such -- it’s not horror, precisely, but it is overwhelmingly _something._

“Will?” Tom asks, alarmed. “Are you alright?”

Will doesn’t answer. He mouths something to himself and sucks in a slow breath, looking up from the note he’s holding towards the ceiling. He closes his eyes.

“Will,” Tom demands, and hears it echoed by Joe. They both reach to steady him as Will sways alarmingly and gropes for a chair, falling into it with all the grace of a dropped set of spillikins. He looks at the letter again and chokes.

“Will!” Joe says, kneeling next to Will. His frustration with Tom has transformed seamlessly into great distress, and Tom might have teased him for it once but since he is feeling exactly the same at the moment, he hasn’t a leg to stand on. Joe gets a hand on Will’s shoulders. “Will, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

Will looks at Joe, wide-eyed, and just shakes his head. He seems absolutely bewildered; he can’t find the words. 

“Was it something in the letter?” Tom prompts. It’s not really a question -- it’s pretty obvious that it was something in the letter. 

Will looks at the letter again and _flinches._ “I --” he tries. “I -- I’m --” and then he chokes up again. This gets even more alarming when he starts to _cry,_ tears streaking from his eyes. He shoves it at Tom. “Just -- you, you read it --”

Well -- alright then, Tom supposes, worried. He can’t do anything for Will that Joe isn’t already doing, and he’s done this before -- yeah, alright. He looks at the letter. He can’t touch it, but he can possess it; and he does just that, sinking into the paper.

 _My dearest Will,_ he feels. The pen was firm where it touched the paper, the strokes solid; but the hand that held it shook. Don’t ask Tom how he knows it, because he isn’t sure. _I hadn’t dared to hope that you would write to me so exhaustively, but you have surpassed my most selfish dreams and done so, anyway._

_I cannot tell you what it means to me that you write to us, letting us know how you are. I haven’t anything easy to tell you, either. I haven’t wanted to respond because -- well -- there is no good reason. I didn’t want to distress you, I know how you fret so -- but these are just excuses._

_I’m sorry; I might have continued to keep this a secret until you next came home, but your mother has since persuaded me otherwise._ That’s fear, there, Tom senses and worry; Will should really stop thinking he has a monopoly on guilt, because Ellie is feeling that in the worst way writing this letter. 

_I am pregnant again. As you might imagine, I am due around the beginning of September._

Tom falls out of the letter in shock. (And possibly with a squeak.)

Both Will and Joe are looking at him, and fortunately, Joe is too worried to comment on any undignified noises. Will looks at Tom, pleadingly; he still can’t express himself, but relief flickers across his face at -- Tom assumes -- whatever expression Tom has, currently. Joe is still terribly confused; he mouths “What?” at Tom.

“Will,” Tom says, voice thick. He knows what this means to his friend -- it’s everything Will hopes for and longs for, all wrapped up in fear and guilt. Joe isn’t doing nearly enough, so Tom reaches through him for Will and pulls Will into the most crushing embrace he can contrive, given how Will is sitting. “Will!” 

Will clings to him, one-armed, leaning into the embrace as Tom scrambles, trying to put it so that Joe can feel this relief, too -- and then it’s too much and Tom _laughs_ because, even in the face of it all, this is _amazing._ “Will, mate -- you’re going to be a father again! That’s brilliant!”

Pregnant! Again! And Tom’s only seen Ellie’s photo and so it is very odd to him, how he can’t quite visualise her, but -- he knows the shape of her anyway; knows the fear that caused her hand to shake and the hope that drove her to write in the first place, and somehow, he also knows that deep internal shout of absolute _joy,_ that leap of the heart that right now is fighting fiercely with the all-encompassing terror of realising that _Will is at war._ And he might never live to see this new child.

But Will is laughing now, too, hysterically; and he reaches out and drags Joe into the embrace as well. Tom feels that oddness of soul that means he is standing in the middle of someone. Then Joe realises what Tom has said and exclaims in astonishment himself and, despite the awkward angle, he hugs Will as enthusiastically as Tom.

“That’s fantastic news!” he says, beaming, and pounds Will on the back, hard. “God -- when is she due? You’ve got to apply for leave then. However much time you want -- I’ll see what I can push through --”

Will’s laughter chokes off with a wet hiccough. Now he’s weeping again, near-silently, the loudest noise he makes his ragged gasping for breath. Joe makes soothing noises for a moment, and then seems to come to some realisation and he moves, shifting out of Will’s hold. “Take over,” he murmurs to Tom when Tom looks at him questioningly, and works it so that Will is clinging to Tom, face mashed up against Tom’s shoulder. Tom goes with it, settling into a slightly easier position that doesn’t involve Will’s knee jabbing his stomach, and does his best to offer whatever comfort he can.

Joe comes back then. “We are going to celebrate,” he announces with a slightly manic cheer. Tom hears the clatter of cups and a more solid _thunk_ of a bottle set down on the table. “We are all going to have a drink _right now_ and then we are going to go to the officer’s club, and you are going to get congratulations from every bloody man in there.” 

Will starts to laugh again, weakly, and pulls away from Tom. “Why are all your solutions alcohol?” he groans, haphazardly wiping at his face. Tom helps with it, making a show of licking his thumb and scrubbing at some dirt until Will squirms away, laughing harder. 

“Because it _works,”_ Joe says with relish. He also looks like he’s on the verge of tears, but he hides it ruthlessly and Tom doesn’t think Will notices. Joe presses one glass into Will’s hands and points to another on the table. “I know you can taste it, get in,” he orders Tom. “It’s no fun if one of us is sober.”

What follows is sheer bloody idiocy, Tom thinks later. It’s true; he can taste the alcohol and between that and the way it actually seems to imbue him with inebriation, somehow, the remainder of the late afternoon is colored with a surreally elated absurdity. 

They all finish the drink Joe poured out, munch a gherkin each in further celebration, and then they leave and make for the officer’s club, which is fairly busy. It’s not Will’s first time going, because Joe has made a point of taking him there before, and that means that when the three of them stagger in, he and Will are welcomed even if it is with some bemusement from the men already present. When Joe stands on a chair and announces that Will’s wife is expecting, though, the lot of them go wild. The half that are already drunk all converge on Will to pound him on the back; the ones who are a decent way towards that state get swept up into the giddy atmosphere; and even the few who were sitting in corners drowning out their sorrows come around to toast him before slinking off somewhere quieter. 

Will gets amazingly drunk. By the end of the afternoon, Joe is very nearly as drunk as Will is. When the three of them finally return to Joseph’s quarters, Tom is surprised to realise that, bizarrely, it is genuinely the most uplifting time Tom can remember having in a while.

~ * ~

_May 13th, 1918 -- in the rear, near Concevreux, France_

Will got it all sorted, alright. He met every man who was recommended and spoke to them all and handed in his selection to Hepburn late on the 9th. Looking at the men standing before him now, Will wonders if he made the right decision. 

“Alright,” he says finally. The men are starting to eye him uneasily, wondering why his silence drags on so; Will needs to get to it. “You’re all here, at least. From the looks of it, you’re all expecting something completely barmy.” 

Most of the men keep their eyes straight -- they are well-trained soldiers. The youngest -- a Sergeant -- looks around to see if anyone else reacted and quickly straightens out when he sees the others haven’t twitched; the Captain, who outranks Will and is not pleased about it, eyes him narrowly. They are all waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“At ease,” Will says, and then, gesturing to the thick grass they are in, a ways away from the path that’s been worn down by the comings and goings of soldiers. “Take a seat, wherever you like. We’ve got this bit of the rear to ourselves, and there’s a lot to cover before tonight.” 

In the end, Will isn’t sure what is the best approach. He could have told them his own experience of being 11 and foolishly stubborn, but they won’t truly understand it until they face the Grim themselves, anyway; and he hasn’t any personal demonstrations to offer as he did with Joseph. So Will keeps it simple and states matter-of-factly what they will do: they will go together to a graveyard at midnight. They will keep hold of their rifles, or pistols, or whatever else they choose so long as iron touches their skin. And after, they will reconvene in an empty billet that has been assigned for their use and they will debrief before meeting again in the morning.

They don’t believe him, not really. Will expects that and he is not disappointed. He dismisses them to go find supper and instructs them to try to get some sleep before they meet again to go into the graveyard together.

Will, unfortunately, spends the time fretting about the whole thing. Because Will wanted to focus on the training, he worked it out ahead of time with Tom so that Tom is spending much of the day with Joseph in the trenches on the Front. Will sent him out that way shortly after settling in at the billet this morning -- Tom will rejoin them past midnight, and he needed to know where to be. 

In the meantime, there is nothing to distract Will, and so he broods. It doesn’t sit right with him, bringing these men to meet the Grim. It is not easy being a deadman and Will knows full well that, once they go through with it, he will be partially responsible for everything that happens to them afterwards. He doesn’t want that burden.

But Hepburn is right -- it’s nearly impossible to meet the demands of the war as it stands. Will wasn’t there for the aftermath of that last week of March, but Joseph’s quiet admission that he had carried so many ghosts he’d felt nearly permanently smothered was chilling. And Hepburn himself is excellent evidence -- Joseph also verified that, despite his own efforts, Hepburn only really stopped looking as strained as he did when Will returned from the hospital and took up his duties again.

There are simply no good options left, it seems.

Still, Will can’t help it when his thoughts cycle back to the men he has selected. There are eight in all. The oldest of them is a 33-year-old medical officer; the youngest is that Sergeant, just turned 21. They are of mixed ranks, too, from the two Lance Corporals to the standoffish Captain. Nevertheless, they are, Will thinks, the best suited for him to introduce to the Grim. Each has a solid foundation to their personality. Will hopes it will be enough to help them withstand the burden of being deadman.

Will thought long and hard about this criteria in particular -- if he is responsible for these men, he wants to make sure he chooses wisely in the first place. 

For example -- Pickering is a gentle soul and naturally tends towards those roles that are more care-taking. He is deeply sympathetic and empathetic, and on the face of it, that is a tremendous advantage -- already he is excellent at interpreting and communicating with ghosts, regardless of language. However, while Will has no doubt that Pickering will be excellent once the Private has finished sorting out his approach towards ghosts, these men get three days with him, and then they are sent back to their units to function as fully-qualified deadmen. They can’t be like Pickering and struggle with deep personal beliefs rooted in empathy and sympathy being challenged by a new reality if Will wants them to survive what is to come. 

Men like Farley would maybe be a better choice. Farley has, Will was startled to realise when he sat down to think about it properly, one of the most positive outlooks on life Will has ever seen. The man is unfazed by the cruelty of their lives as soldiers and hasn’t any qualms dealing with the dead, remaining unmoved by any crippling sympathy. Not that he doesn’t have any -- the way Farley admitted to Will privately that it was somewhat of a relief in how he could make sure that something of the men got off the battlefield and found rest showed that he had something of that humanity in him -- but it isn’t enough to break him. If anything, actually, Farley’s perspective really solidified Will’s feeling that the men chosen would need to be thoroughly pragmatic, able to simply accept and meet reality head on.

Joseph isn’t a terrible example, either. He has got a strong sense of duty and Will has never known him to shirk it, not even in the face of Death. However, Joseph is also tremendously emotional, and this comes into conflict with his insistence on prioritising his responsibilities at the expense of all else. Will has come to learn very well that Joseph does not know how to step away from his duty, not even when Joseph should probably do so just to find some bloody peace. Through Joseph’s example, Will determined first that he could not select men who were bound or driven by duty alone, and second, that the men selected needed to be able to recognise on a personal level their own limits and have the wherewithal to respect them. 

Will wishes he had had some surefire way to test the men when he first met them and talked with them; maybe then he would feel less fretful about all this. However, all the questions in the world couldn’t really help him find the answers, and in the end, Will had to rely on his instincts with several of them. --But perhaps that is part of the point of it; perhaps this is in some part a leap of faith.

(There are simply no good options . . .)

That evening goes only a little better than the afternoon. In the graveyard, Will finds he has wound himself up, anxiety sawing at his patience and sense of ease. Some of the men make some small chatter and the Captain -- Captain MacGregor -- makes at least one cutting remark about wasting a lot of time. Will’s response -- ignoring it -- seems to put the man off. --Or maybe it was the look Will gave him. By the time midnight hits, Will has become convinced that something dreadful will happen --

\-- and depressingly, he isn’t wrong on this account, either. 

With the first toll of the bell, the ground drops out from beneath all of them and they plummet through a shrieking maelstrom. Will has never felt anything so violent; he thinks he screams from the shock. It’s utterly terrifying. 

He’s not sure when he finds his footing again, blinded and deafened, but he does eventually; and when the stars clear from his vision and his sense of awareness returns, he finds he is in the graveyard, and the Grim is monstrously huge. 

It towers over him, as big as a house. As it peers down at him, Will senses that the Grim is not pleased. Well -- Will isn’t either. He squares his shoulders and says, “I know we are imposing on Your time, but do You have to be so large? They already know Your power.”

The Grim’s ears prick up from where they are flattened against its head. _It is not often I meet so many all at once._

“I am sorry,” Will says to that, and doesn’t bother to stop his shoulders from slumping. Perhaps it is absurd, but the Grim is like a friend at this point, and Will does not like to disturb it like this. But how does one explain such human frailties as having to submit to a man-made higher power such as a fellow deadman, giving orders that -- frankly -- benefit oneself? Will strives for a moment and has to give up after some fumbling. “I -- sorry. This isn't what I'd have chosen." 

_Hmph._ The Grim sits with a thud that shakes the ground. _Introduce them, then._

Will turns. Behind him, he sees only four of the men -- the Captain, one of the Lance Corporals, and two of the Ambulancers. “Where’ve the rest of you got to?” he asks them.

None of them answer -- they are too busy gaping at the Grim. Will grits his teeth and gets on with it; if he has to come back tomorrow with the other half, he supposes he can do that.

One by one he introduces the men to the Grim. He has to call the first one -- the Captain -- twice, but then the man stumbles forward as white as anything, clearly responding only to the conviction in Will’s voice. Upon each, the Grim bestows the gift of one huge, slobbery lick. It sets them all sputtering. 

Last, Will comes forward for his own greeting. The Grim is much friendlier now. It jabs him in the side with a muzzle as big as Will and whuffs with satisfaction at whatever it finds, and lets Will pat its head. 

Spurred by some instinct, Will feels the need to have some private conversation -- after all, it is the first time they have met again since March. He leans in close to that huge ear so the other men don’t hear this part. “Thank you for saving me,” he says quietly, using both hands to scratch at the crease of the ear. “I know it isn’t much. But -- my wife is pregnant again, and you’ve given me the chance to see my newest child. So thank you.” 

The Grim accepts this and beats its tail in pleasure. Then it adopts its formal stance, and Will passes along the burden of his ghosts -- he’s been carrying these for over a month. It’s a mixture of ghosts from the hospital, the ones too fragile to make their way to a graveyard even with Tom’s aid, and those that Will has collected from the line and during the battle. It’s been so tremendously busy he hasn’t had the time to come before now, and they number more than a hundred.

With the Grim and the dead gone, the world melts around Will and the other four men. It’s not as violent as before, but it is still disconcerting, especially when the four missing men abruptly reappear, looking just as shaken as the four who were with Will.

“What was _that?”_ the youngest -- Sergeant Andrews, from the 2nd Middlesex -- croaks. “You saw that, right? Right?” 

“In a minute, Sergeant,” Will says. “Back to the billet, gentlemen -- then you can shout all you like.” 

He gets them back, offering a bracing squeeze to the shoulder or words as necessary for them individually, and even manages to have them very nearly calmed again when they finally re-enter and find Tom, bored, stretched out on Will’s bunk. Pandemonium breaks out again with all of the men reacting, which tells Will that even if only four of them met the Grim with him, they’ve _all_ gained the abilities, and then the Captain gives up and falls to the floor in a dead faint and everything is chaos. Order is restored only when Will thoroughly loses his patience and fires his bloody officer’s pistol into the floor.

In the ensuing silence, he points to the table. “All of you, gather around that,” he barks. “Drag it near some bunks or something, I don’t care. But _sit down_ and, for God’s sake, _get ahold of yourselves.”_

And then he stands there and fumes. Meekly, they set to it.

“Er,” Tom says tentatively beside him. He gingerly puts a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Scho . . . you might need to take a breath, yeah?”

Will expels the breath he’s already got sharply through his nose and regrets it when Lance Corporal Glassford jumps and edges away. So Will grinds his teeth and wrestles his temper under control. He takes a moment to listen to Tom’s quiet cadences as his friend coaches him through a few breaths, and once he feels more settled, Will sets himself to doing something productive. Ignoring the men totally, he goes to his things and pulls out the contraband he’s brought along -- two bottles of whiskey, commandeered from Hepburn’s supply. 

“Pull out your mugs,” he says to the group, hefting them up. This, at least, is met with some actual life.

When planning this training out, Will had come to the conclusion that, above all, he needed to make sure the new deadmen had something to hold onto in the coming days: a sense of safety. It is something that is nearly impossible to come by in this war. Will can make no guarantees -- and he has no intention of bringing up his own bargain with Death. 

However, he can give them a community of sorts. Will remembers the sheer relief of Hepburn’s revelation to him back in December: that not only was Will _not_ the only one, but that what he did was expected -- necessary. Will remembers the startling joy of learning to work with Joseph after Joseph came with him to the graveyard and, moreover, thinks of the security that Will has now, of knowing he can share everything with Joseph and be understood in a way that Will has never had before. And Will sees it time and time again in Farley and Pickering, bolstering each other as they come to grips with this new reality. It is absolutely vital that these men in front of him know, even if it is not easy, that there is someone else out there they can turn to.

Will clears his throat once they all have a drink in hand. The men fall silent. “I think,” Will says, taking the time to meet the eyes of each one individually, “that it is time we introduce ourselves properly.”

~ * ~

_May 22nd, 1918 -- Roucy, France_

Being in the trenches for their first week in this new sector did not give them much time to appreciate the full beauty of the countryside they are in; now, back at the rear in billets for training, Joseph can admire their surroundings.

This whole area is green and full of growing things. It’s quiet, too -- even at the Front, there was remarkably little shelling. The skies have been clear for days and the sunshine is beguiling -- after being relieved from the line and marched back to Roucy, yesterday, the vast majority of the men of the battalion (and Joseph does not deny that he was one of them) somehow found time to laze in it on the resplendent grass, coming up thickly everywhere it can. It’s not summer, yet, but it is warm enough to feel like it after the cold of the long winter. 

Even their first week on the line was not terribly taxing. Hardly any action at all from the Germans -- some light shelling, one easily dissuaded attack -- it was quiet. Just like it is here, at the billets. It is so tempting to see if he can duck out of meeting with his Lieutenants and find a quiet spot to soak it in . . .

Well, maybe afterwards. It’s well into the afternoon, but unless there is some matter that requires a great deal of their time, the meeting shouldn’t take long. And then Joseph will see about that bit of peace. 

The Lieutenants all arrive in due course. Lieutenant Smith is first, eager to prove his worth through punctuality. On his heels, there is Lieutenant Fahey, the replacement for the late Lieutenant Langley, who unfortunately did not survive his wounds from the engagement in April. Fahey is an older man, who -- much like Will -- had been abruptly promoted to Lieutenant some months back from the non-commissioned track. 

Will comes in next, Tom absent. Will rolls his eyes a little when Joseph looks at him questioningly -- so Tom is probably outside, napping. Lazy arse, Joseph thinks without any real heat, conveniently ignoring that he would be doing the exact same thing if he could get away with it.

Last is Sergeant Standish, coming in a full minute after Will appears. He’s taken over for Clive, promoted to Sergeant and then de facto Lieutenant during the action in April, when the former Sergeant got blown up. Clive, of course, is still out for his arse-wound. 

Time to start the meeting. “Well, gentlemen,” Joseph opens with. “How are you finding it here?” 

Generally favourable, they assure him. Everyone is much in agreement that the weather, though occasionally verging on “too hot,” is infinitely preferable to the chill of the north. The replacements sent for them to bolster their ranks are also settling in without too much trouble. That week on the line helped sort them out quickly; they’re falling into the platoons during training very easily and unit cohesion is improving at a swift pace. 

There is no additional business and so Joseph dismisses them all within a half-hour, instructing them to settle into the routine of being in the rear. They’re on training rotas for the next week; the work isn’t demanding of much beyond endurance, and none of the men are as yet rested enough to cause any real trouble. It is a promising start to the week. 

Will hangs back until the others have gone. “Are you busy after this?” he asks. 

Joseph shakes his head. “Nothing, so far as I am aware,” he says, already feeling the lure of the golden afternoon. “Do you have anything in mind?”

Will snorts. “Not me, no. Tom’s found some spot he swears is quiet; he says he saw you yesterday and thought you’d like to get more sunbathing in.”

“That,” says Joseph, “sounds perfect.” He claps Will’s shoulder and turns them for the door.

On the way out, one of the orderlies stops them; a letter has arrived, from England. It is from Sophia. If Will notices Joseph’s sudden apprehension, he doesn’t comment -- grateful, Joseph slits open the envelope and scans the letter as they walk. 

He grins when he finishes it. A favourable response! He’d taken a bit of a gamble with his last letter, but it seems it has paid off.

“Did she like your photograph?” Will asks, sounding amused.

“Most effusively,” Joseph replies, cheerfully. “It appears I shall be required to call upon some people when I am next in England, but it’ll be well worth it.”

“Good luck,” Will says, and sounds like he means it. “And I assume you want me to keep it from Tom for now?”

“I’ll tell him myself,” Joseph says mildly. “You know, eventually.”

The spot Tom has found _is_ quiet, and lovely, besides. His little brother is stretched out in the grass, sound asleep. Will kicks one of his booted feet; Tom jerks awake. “Whazzat,” he says, rubbing his eyes.

“Nice spot you’ve got here,” Joseph says. “Mind company?”

Tom scowls at him. “If that’s all you were going to ask, what’d you wake me up for?”

“I can’t say hullo?”

“Piss off,” Tom grunts, and slides his helmet back over his eyes. In the time it takes for Will and Joe to make themselves comfortable, he’s snoring again. 

“I still don’t know how he does that,” Will stage-whispers. “I never thought ghosts slept, but he does it all the time.”

“It’s just one of his defining personality traits,” Joseph whispers in kind, stretching out in a similar fashion. The sun is warm and the breeze is gentle. “A Blake tradition, that.”

“I see the scenery has got you, too,” Will says, but not unkindly. Joseph hears him lying back the same as Joseph. 

Listening to the birdsong picking up behind them, Joseph finds it hard to believe that last year this was the most fiercely-contested part of Front in all of France, bitterly fought between the French forces and the Germans. The war left its mark here, as it has everywhere else. But now the tree stumps in the rolling hills of this land are sprouting new twigs and the crump-holes and craters left from last August are fuzzed over with greenery, edges softening or disappearing altogether. For God’s sake, they can see the smoke from a quaint little town maybe a mile west of them -- and Roucy not even a mile from the Front! 

This is a place with life in it. Joseph knows that there was some concern about whether this sector was secure -- but it is hard to keep up one’s guard in a spot like this. 

~ * ~

_May 27th, 1918 -- Transport Lines outside of Jonchery, France._

**12.55 a.m.  
**Tom sorts through the contents of Joe’s pockets. Where is it? Damn it all, Joe’s gotten better at hiding his personal things since he learnt Tom was still around. Tom is _dying_ to read that letter.

Midway through the trunk of Joe’s things at the foot of his cot, Tom hears it when the bombardment begins. He pauses to listen for a moment, but to his relief, it sounds suitably distant. They received the message earlier that afternoon about the impending attack, and there had been some debate between Will and Joe about the wisdom of keeping the men up in case the bombardment targeted the transport lines they were sent to that morning, but they eventually decided that an attack on the line wouldn’t likely target transport lines six miles to the rear and chose to risk a rude awakening. 

Briskly, Tom returns to his search. It can’t be at the bottom of the trunk -- Joe would want it somewhere he could access it easily . . . Tom straightens as a thought occurs to him. _Surely_ Joe wouldn’t be so stupid as to keep it in the same place he used to keep his budoir photos.

He sticks his hand through Joe’s pillow, ignoring his snoring older brother . . . _aha._ His snoring, _stupid_ older brother.

 **4.34 a.m.  
**Will gasps awake, sitting up in the dark of the billet. Around him, men snore or shuffle or cough or sigh; he never thought he’d loathe privacy, but bunking with the familiar sounds of 5th Platoon has been a balm to his nerves he hadn’t known he needed. Whatever nightmare it is, he won’t remember it anyway --

\-- or is it a nightmare? That’s funny, why is he still feeling so awful -- 

\-- “Will,” Tom says to him. Tom’s face swims into view, taking up all of Will’s field of vision. “Will, are you alright?”

“No,” Will manages. He feels very peculiar. He can’t tell if it’s the sleepiness or the nightmare or -- or -- truthfully, he hasn’t the slightest idea what’s going on. What’s going on. What. Why . . . 

Somewhere, Death has come. 

Will doesn’t know how he knows this. He doesn’t know much of anything, really, not until Farley starts to shake him insistently, repeating “Sarge, Sarge” over and over, and Will isn’t Sarge anymore -- but isn’t he with 5th Platoon? -- yes, but he’s the Lieutenant now -- where’s Joseph? Joseph. Joe, JOE --

\-- both of them hold him down. That is what he is aware of. Tom is on his right and Joe is on his left; they’ve got him pinned to the bunk and, with Farley, are keeping him from curling so tightly around his own head that he could kiss his ankles. There is a worried murmur around them all as men start to wake in their bunks.

“Lieutenant Schofield,” Joseph says crisply. “Report. What the bloody hell are you doing?”

Somehow, this allows Will to achieve a moment of clarity even in the midst of the discordant screaming that seems to be taking up all the space in his skull. He breathes it in, holding tightly to Tom and Joe. Under his hands, both of the Blakes are there, steady, unshakable; Will draws that into himself and _thinks._ It’s the same -- the same feeling as in April, right after he rejoined the battalion. And if there’s to be an attack for today . . .

“The attack,” he rasps. He blinks; the darkness resolves into familiar shapes. He fixates on one and wills himself to focus. “It’s started. It’s happening, it’s -- I don’t know, I think --”

“We know it is happening,” Joseph says. He is so calm, so calm and clear-headed, how does he do this? If Will could just hold onto him, maybe he’d find the answer -- “Remember? We’re at the transport lines, in reserve, Lieutenant. Did you hear me, Lieutenant? Schofield? Will --”

“They’re breaking through!” Will feels it, the Death that is visited on the Line; it’s impossibly great. He doesn’t know how to articulate this, this sweeping -- gravitational pull, devoid of Life. He only knows what it means, what _must_ be happening. “Joe, please -- they’re breaking through, they can’t have this many dying if they aren’t breaking through --”

There is a susurrus of voices. It whirls disconcertingly around him, practically visible on the breath of every man surrounding him. It is agony. He barely even has a concept of self with how things are dissolving so rapidly. 

~ * ~

“Call in a medic or something,” Tom urges Joe. “Or -- hell, bloody hell, get some of them to carry him out. You don’t want them hearing this!”

Joe doesn’t look at him, bent over as he is to keep Will from -- whatever he was doing. When Tom came back from finding Joe, it looked like Will was trying to claw out his own brain, digging these horrible gouges in his scalp with his own nails. Tom doesn’t blame his brother; personally, he finds Will far more important than any other man in 5th Platoon, even if they are all stirring awake and panicking at the state of things. 

“Will,” Joe is chanting into Will’s ear, “Will, we are alright. We are not killed, we are still here --”

Joe’s not listening to Tom -- he’ll get no help from that quarter. Tom looks around -- Pickering. 

“Pickering!” Tom snaps. “For God’s sake, get Will out of here!”

Will disrupts all of this by sitting up so sharply that he and Joe bang heads. It would be hilarious if it weren’t for the fact that there is blood trickling out of Will’s ears, as though he has been struck with a shockwave from a bomb or an artillery shell. He shakes Tom off and fists his hand in Joe’s shirt collar while Joe is still blinking away the shock and says _“Call battalion headquarters, now.”_

“Farley,” Joe croaks around the hold constricting his air. He reaches out and grasps at the Will’s wrist, responding to the force with gentleness. 

“Upton, get your arse to a bloody phone. Get Headquarters on the line immediately -- Captain Blake’s authority.”

Will maintains his hold, teeth bared at nothing whilst Joe wrestles with the grip. Tom gets both his hands on Will’s and pries at Will’s fingers until Will is forced to let go. 

Joe leans in. This time, he and Tom make sure to pin Will’s wrists to the bed instead of just his shoulders. 

Will whines deep in his throat. Tom has never heard something so unnerving in his life.

“Wake up,” Tom snaps at him. He can hear his voice going shrill from fear. “For fuck’s sake, Will, wake UP!”

There’s a splash -- Tom feels a tremendous disruption. Will gasps and, abruptly, sags. He pants in the bed, all the fight in him gone. 

Farley stands over the lot of them, the basin of water for shaving in his hands, emptied. He’s drenched the lot of them with it.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Joe says after a moment. He doesn’t look very thankful, saying it through his teeth as he is. 

“What’s -- why are you -- Tom? Joe?”

Joe is in his element. He’s assured and unfazed and it does wonders to smooth the anxieties of everyone who hears it. “Right here,” he says, as though Will hasn’t just spent the last minute doing his best to choke him to death. “I’m right here. You’re alright -- we’re alright.” 

It works. Will seems to be back to himself at last -- focused on Joe and Tom, fully back in the present. “You can let me up now,” he says. Louder, he calls out to the members of the platoon who are sitting up nervously -- “Sorry gentlemen, just a nightmare.”

That settles the men. Several flop back into their beds with the usual disgruntled comments about being woken, relieved it is not something more unusual. Joe still doesn’t look fully convinced, but he eases up on his grip anyway. Tom follows suit. Will pushes himself up to look around.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Will says to Farley, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot and sitting up -- Joe shifts aside to give him more space. Unlike Joe, Will sounds sincere. He is also signalling for Farley to move closer, and Tom takes the opportunity to get up and move to sit on Will’s other side.

From here, he can watch as Will looks between Joe and Farley and says, very quietly, “We will need to be prepared. I think that attack they were expecting is much worse than we were led to believe.”

“How do you know, Sir?” Farley asks, just as quiet. “We haven’t heard from Headquarters --”

“Because the last time I felt this way we were on the line when those tanks came through,” Will says. “Right after the bombardment -- before the tanks came over our positions? I don’t know how to explain it, but I just had this -- feeling.”

There isn’t a whole lot anyone can say to that. Joe rubs his face and blows out a breath. “Any way to check that?”

“I’ve already sent Upton to see if he can’t find a field telephone somewhere,” Farley says, unperturbed. 

Will sighs. “Sorry,” he says. “I know it sounds mad.”

Tom snorts in tandem with Farley at that. It’s not like they’re going through anything remotely normal.

“Well, take a moment to sort yourself out,” he says to his friend, and indicates Will’s ears. “You’ve got blood all over you.”

They haven’t long to wait -- Upton returns a minute later and makes for them while Will is still bewilderedly dabbing away the mess. “They can’t raise Battalion Headquarters,” the Lance Corporal says without preamble. “They tried it twice -- nothing.”

“Should we get the men ready?” Farley asks.

Will shakes his head. “We’ll get word soon enough,” he says, grimly certain. Tom exchanges a look with Farley. They’re six miles from the Front -- surely the Germans can’t push forward this far? 

**5.50 a.m.  
**Joseph’s batman wakes him not a half-hour after he returns to bed. “There’s a message for you, Sir,” the man says, handing him a note. It’s written by hand, hastily-penned for all that it is readable; he is to report to Headquarters immediately. Joseph hates it that Will is right.

Joseph rolls out of his cot. “Send word to the Lieutenants,” he says, shrugging into yesterday’s tunic, left hanging over the back of a chair. It’s still damp from Farley’s taking action earlier -- damn. “Tell them I’ve been called in for a meeting and to be prepared.”

“Yes, Sir.” 

Joseph splashes some water on his face to wake up. No time to shave; he curses the necessity for it. But there are more important things at the moment. He leaves his room still doing up the buttons. 

The meeting is short. “The Germans have broken through the line in several places,” the Colonel says to the assembled officers here, who usually just man the transport lines. Joseph cannot recall his name at the moment, and it hardly matters, because _broken through the line_ is the worst possible news. “The 1st Sherwood are being called out of reserve and so is everyone else. Get your men ready.”

 **12.18 p.m.  
**When the lull settles in the fighting, Will has to fight not to thank the Germans for their consideration. They’d marched four miles to get here and since then, it’s been sheer chaos. Nothing but carnage for the two hours they’ve been fighting. And the ghosts -- 

When Will woke up this morning to the sheer enormity of that -- cloud, that creeping cold front on the edge of his perceptions -- he’d known immediately that it would be something on a scale he hadn’t experienced before. It had felt as large as the action in April -- and if that was only the first hour, what more could it be?

He regrets not trying to get more sleep now, he thinks inanely. It looks like he’s going to have to get used to that feeling sooner rather than later.

The ghosts are coming in an endless stream. They’re attracted to him and Joseph and Farley and Pickering; they hone in on B Company’s position in the rough-made line and come for them. At least, now that the Germans have withdrawn for the time being, none of them have to try to pick them up while dodging bullets or high explosives.

Will finishes checking on his platoon and makes his way towards the center of the line, where Joseph was standing, supporting 6th Platoon. Lieutenant Smith, poor bastard, was sniped as soon as they entered the fighting. His body is heaped with the others.

Will finds Joseph leaning against the trench wall, gulping water from his canteen. The sun is hot and high overhead; they’re all sweating under the wool of their tunics. He spots Will coming and gives him a small salute with the water, then offers it to him. Will shakes his head and leans against the wall with Joe.

“How many have we lost?” Joseph asks, meaning 5th Platoon.

“Enough,” Will says. “Kimberley and Smithers were caught in a blast. So was Rutherford, but we were able to bandage him up.” He’d like to have the time to process that -- Kimberley’s been with them since the beginning of Will’s time with 5th Platoon, and it seems a shame that all Will can offer him now is a regimental badge to rest in. “Two others out, dead, too.”

“Wounded?”

“Enough.”

“There you are. I thought we’d find you here,” Will hears from above them. They both twist around, looking to the top of the trench wall --

\-- more ghosts; familiar ones. It’s Colonel Hepburn, positively full of holes. Behind him come several of the 2nd Devonshire Battalion Headquarters staff -- officers and orderlies, all dead. 

“Fuck,” Will says heavily. This hits him worse than collecting even Kimberley, for some reason. “I mean -- sorry, Sir.” 

Hepburn drops into the trench. “Nothing to be done for it, lad,” he says tiredly. “They got most of us before the sun even rose properly; we were surrounded by dawn. But not all of us are here -- I’ve some hope yet for Major Boden . . .” he trails off, looking back in the direction from which they came.

Will starts to tug the Colonel forward, ready to thread him through the stitching of Will’s collar. It snaps Hepburn out of whatever thought he’s in -- he shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says firmly. “I collected as many of ours as I could find after -- . . . when I came to. See them safely away first.” 

“Sir,” Will says hoarsely. He and Joseph get to it, and --

\-- the ghosts don’t stop coming. It wasn’t just the soldiers at Battalion Headquarters that Hepburn collected; it seems he shepherded almost the _entire battalion._

 _“All?”_ Joseph chokes out at one point, about the time that two of his fellow Captains appear. They were new, and Joe hadn’t known them well, Will remembers, but that’s not the point. Nearly every single man who toasted Will in the officer’s club not two weeks past are in his or Joseph’s buttons, and Will feels precisely the same way. _“All_ of them?”

Hepburn just shakes his head. When the last of the Devons are safely stored, he salutes both of them and wishes them luck, and finally permits Will to set him in one of Will’s Lieutenant’s stars.

 **9.55 p.m.  
**By sunset, everyone is so tired that they slump where they sit, sleeping without waiting for supper. Not that they’re likely to get much -- everything is in disarray, even Tom can see that. 

And Tom is not unaffected by this. The day has been long. With all the ghosts stored in Will and Joe’s things, he felt uncomfortably squashed, even alone in the tin -- Tom’s elected to risk getting caught in a shell blast out in the open and it has been exhausting watching the men fight and fall back, be bombarded, fight, and retreat some more. They’ve been driven almost all the way back to Jonchery and it is only now that the Germans have finally ceased -- presumably for the night, but goodness only knows with the Bosche. 

“They’ve been advancing all day,” Joe says, when Tom brings this up. His voice rasps from overuse. Joe winces, and pats his person, searching for his flask -- Will pulls it out of the correct pocket and hands it to him after Joe can’t locate it. “They likely haven’t the resources to keep going. They need to sleep, same as we do.”

“Unless they don’t,” Will mutters, but he says it without any heat. Tom can see his head starting to nod, eyes closed; and then he snores a little, asleep sitting straight up. Joe looks at him and huffs something that might have been a laugh under other circumstances. 

“Leave him alone,” Tom says.

Joe shakes his head. “I’m not going to get in the way of him getting some sleep.”

“Ho, the Devons!” someone calls. “Is this what’s left of the Devons? I heard -- bloody _hell._ Blake, is that you?”

Joe straightens sharply, looking around. So does Tom -- he recognises _that_ voice!

(Will, bless him, doesn’t stir. He’s out cold.) 

“Capt-- Major Richards?” Joe says, disbelieving. Tom whoops with sudden excitement -- the way Joe’s face is brightening is more than enough cause for celebration. Joe scrambles to his feet, limping only a little as he heads towards the battered figure of Major Benjamin Richards.

Richards swears with delight and pounds Joe on the back in greeting. “Good Lord, it _is_ you! I thought you’d all been killed --”

“-- they were, we were sent to the transport lines the morning of the 26th -- ”

“-- am I glad to see you --”

“-- what’s all this, eh?” Joe demands, plucking at Richards’s uniform. It doesn’t quite fit him, and it’s got a Lance Corporal’s single chevron on the sleeves. “Been demoted?”

“‘s going on?” Will mumbles, next to Tom. He’s coming back around from the noise.

“Hsst! Joe!” Tom catches Joe’s attention and points to Will, holding a finger to his lips with the other. Richards watches, bemused, as Joe reacts to nothing at all, but Joe quiets. “Nothing,” Tom says firmly to Will, and moves closer so that Will can lean against a friendly shoulder. Will goes along with it, tipping over until his head rests on top of Tom’s.

Joe and Richards come over, Joe settling himself back up alongside Will. Richards takes the other side, and only boggles a little to see Will balanced on thin air. Quietly, he fills Joe in on what happened to the West Yorks as Will’s breathing evens back out with the return of sleep.

~ * ~

_May 28th - 29th, 1918 -- Jonchery, France - ????, France_

**8.40 a.m.  
**Benjamin squints. “Is that Brigadier-General Grogan?”

His head hurts like hell and the bright sunlight isn’t helping. For once, it’s not alcohol that’s brought him low, either. Benjamin touches the edges of the massive lump he got yesterday, courtesy of the Hun, and flinches a bit at the sting -- still there, and still unhappy about it. Ugh.

“Don’t do that,” Blake says absently, knocking Benjamin’s hand away as he looks in the direction that Benjamin is staring at. “I haven’t the foggiest,” Blake says, squinting also. “I can’t make out his face from here.”

What’s left of the 8th Division -- what can be found of it -- has finally straggled in through here. Of their brigade, specifically, Benjamin’s found five men from the 2nd West Yorks -- one Captain, three Privates, and a gunner who’d gotten lucky after a shell had landed on the rest of his crew whilst he was taking a piss. Poor bloke was shocked silent by his good fortune -- Benjamin hopes he snaps out of it, or he likely won’t last through the fighting; from Blake’s account of yesterday’s action, this is going to be the Somme all over again. 

Besides them, sixty men from the 2nd Middlesex -- including a Sergeant who’d burst into tears at the sight of Lieutenant Schofield -- had also managed to make it back. No remnants of the 2nd Devons came through.

If Benjamin had the time and capacity to permit himself to think about this state of affairs, it would be overwhelming. As it stands, B Company of the Devons is down to 160 men capable of fighting out of 200; combined with what’s left of the 2nd Middlesex and 2nd West Yorks, the whole of the 23rd Infantry Brigade, formerly nearly 3000 men, is down to a bare Company’s worth. It’s appalling.

\--But he ignores this, because he cannot afford to dwell on it now. Instead, he focuses on the positive. B Company is familiar with him -- he and Blake set about combining what’s left of the Brigade into one fighting unit, more or less. If Benjamin doesn’t think too deeply into it, it’s almost like he’s just back to being a Captain, and at least that helps him stave off the feeling that the whole world has up-ended.

“He’s welcome to take command,” Benjamin says, feeling slightly hysterical despite all his efforts. “We’re all that’s left of his old command. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see us.”

“We’ll need to get your uniform sorted first,” Blake says. “Else he’ll continue to think you’re just a Lance Corporal.”

 **10.05 p.m.  
**Pickering is fairly sure that he has never been this exhausted in his life. They’ve been driven back, and back, and back again; back until they were at the top of the ridge-line along the road and the only way to go was down. Farley muttered something about being perpetually flanked and then screamed a set of curses so foul Pickering would swear the air turned blue when the Hun renewed their attack at 3 in the afternoon, and that was the last sensible thing Pickering had heard from him.

Then they were retiring, retreating, running -- off the high ground they’d held desperately all through the afternoon, into the low. Pickering had thought that would be the end of it.

But it’s not. Now Farley sits, and grits his teeth, and sweats. Pickering tries to keep his touch light as he checks his friend’s dressings, but the arm around the bullet hole is swollen and raw-looking, and he suspects even the slightest pressure is agonizing.

“You should’ve joined the Medical Corps,” Farley gasps out when Pickering is finally finished. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

Lieutenant Schofield comes up to them just as Pickering’s about to answer. “Right,” the Lieutenant says. “You alright there?”

Pickering and Farley flinch back. It’s not Lieutenant Schofield -- or not as they know him, anyway. Pickering’s been collecting ghosts, and so has Farley, but -- neither of them can even _see_ the Lieutenant’s form, really, not with the sheer number of overlapping presences. And his eyes --

Pickering averts his, quickly. “Yes, Sir,” he says. “Just checking up on Sergeant Farley, Sir.”

“I’m alright,” Farley says, stubborn to the last.

“Good,” says the Lieutenant. “Good. Get ready -- we’re about to go back up the ridge.” He hesitates, as though to say something else, but closes his mouth and continues down the line, informing the rest of the platoon as he goes. They’re down ten men -- now eleven, Pickering amends, looking at Farley.

\-- who’s getting to his feet, leaning on his rifle --

“You’re mad,” Pickering says flatly. “You can’t come with us, your arm’s useless!”

“Wrap it up tight, there’s a good lad,” Farley says instead. “I might not be much use with a gun, but I can still swing a club.”

 **2.15 a.m.  
**The fighting has died down. Will makes his way through the men, taking care not to step on any of them; he can’t remember the last time they got some sleep and they are taking the opportunity now, most literally sleeping where they wound up once the whistles signalling the end of the fight were blown. If he was feeling anything at the moment, he thinks he’d want to join them, but right now he is simply too numb. 

Up ahead, Will sees a Captain’s stars on the shoulders of a man, the lighter part of the uniform only slightly more visible in the dark. As he gets closer, he feels the otherworldly chill of the dead. 

Will eases himself down next to Joseph. Joseph shifts a little, knocking his shoulder against Will as a greeting, but is so weary he forgets to pull away.

“I’m coming up short,” he says. “I know I’m short. I can’t tell who’s missing anymore -- their names are all running together in my head.” 

“I had to stop thinking about it,” Will says honestly. “It got to be too much.”

Joseph grunts. “Tom?” he asks after a moment.

“I put him in the tin.” Will tries to marshal his thoughts -- what was the reason? 

He’s asleep before he remembers the answer.

 **11 a.m.  
**“Here they come again, boys!” Joseph shouts.

He moves from position to position, keeping low to avoid the bullets -- the trenches they’ve got on this precarious ridge aren’t nearly deep enough. B Company is much-reduced, down by half. 

He’s not sure how much longer he can keep collecting ghosts. He’s fairly certain his things are full to bursting.

He moves between the members of 5th Platoon, taking desperate aim over the edge of the trenches at anything that moves. It’s a terrible gamble. He and Will exchange a pat, briefly -- _you’re still here? Yes, I’m still here_ \-- and then Joseph is moving on, doing his best to ignore the Death that is all around them, swirling like the great maw of Charybdis. 

**3.35 p.m.  
**They are bombarded for a half an hour by the Hun. And then, from the rear --

“Cover! _Cover!”_

“You bloody bastards!” Benjamin screams at their own reserve lines, seeing the shells start to drop. _“We’re on your side!”_

It’s too late -- what’s left of the 2nd Middlesex is gone, along with a company of Frenchmen. The young Sergeant ducking down next to him makes a horrible choking noise, staring at the remains of the men.

“Look away,” Benjamin says roughly. He knows the man’s seen worse things -- they all have -- but it just seems a shame that they both have to see this one, too.

 **9 p.m.  
**“Who’ll tell Farley?” Pickering asks, numbly, when Tom finds him after the fighting. He looks down at his body, twisted up as it is with two others midway between the Germans’ line and their own. “They evacuated him out this morning.”

“You can, if you want,” Tom offers. 

Pickering flinches. “I -- I can’t. I let him down.”

Tom stands with him silently until Pickering is ready to leave. 

~ * ~

_May 31st, 1918 -- Goinges, France_

Richards sets the bottle on the table in the dugout they've been allocated and indicates for them to help themselves before leaning back in his seat and staring blankly at the ceiling. Joseph pours the first round for the three of them; Will pours the second. Together, they drink it dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sparse notes bc I'm too emotional to write them right now! ~~OUR BABIES . . . our babies . . .~~
> 
> Historical notes will be forthcoming, I promise -- with all the gory details -- but there was, actually, a Company of the Devons who were not with the rest of the battalion when the battalion was surrounded and wiped out. We chose to employ our artistic license and make it Joseph and Will's company.
> 
> Next chapter will be an interlude and up within the week, because we need the time to recover . . . and possibly you do, too . . . and then there will be a last plot chapter to wrap things up. NO idea when that'll be up, but it shouldn't take more than two weeks.
> 
> In the meantime, we started a blog for this series -- it's between-the-crosses.tumblr.com. We're sorting through some messages others have sent us before and including it there, as well as doing individual chapter/work announcements for the whole series. Art and other behind-the-scenes material will be posted as well. Feel free to leave comments here or send messages there!
> 
> Additionally, writeyourownstory and I put together a massive list of resources and published it on AO3. Virtually all of the sources Vuvu and I have used for this whole series are there, so check it out if you want to know more!
> 
> Lastly -- we love you guys, all of you, so much <3 Thanks for hanging in here with us <3
> 
> Historical Notes (added 6/21/20):
> 
> 1\. NO WAY. THERE IS NO WAY THAT THERE WAS A WHOLE COMPANY OF DEVONS NOT WITH THE BATTALION.
> 
>  _YES WAY I STG I SHRIEKED OUT LOUD WHEN I FOUND OUT!_ Do we know why they were sent? NO EFFING CLUE we could NOT find anything about that. Also, do we know where these transport lines are??? No!!!! I ended up reading a few articles on the transportation of troops/supplies/etc. as well as logistics in WWI in general and then ended up cross-referencing some maps -- with the timeline we had, we determined they couldn't have been so close to the 2nd Devons that they wouldn't just return, matched that up with the later movements of the Company (the 10 a.m. march on the 27th), and cross-referenced it with a map of the area that had railroads marked on it, and just made our best guesstimate that the 'transport lines' were at Jonchery. 
> 
> 2\. Okay, okay! Um. Names, dates, places, etc?
> 
> AHA I do have some notes about this! Standing response of all names being made up isn't entirely true; Brigadier-General Grogan was the actual Brigadier in charge of the 23rd Infantry Brigade, and apparently he was QUITE THE CHARACTER (in a good way). Otherwise, all names are made up. Dates are also all as accurate as we can make them. Places, besides the transport lines bit mentioned above, are also also all as correct as can be determined; and believe you me, I was cross referencing a LOT of maps for this aksdjaksdkandadal chapter.
> 
> 3\. How about times? You use a lot of times in the latter part of the chapter!
> 
> These are also roughly correct. This largely comes from that book on the 8th Division I ordered a few months ago -- for a full timeline of the battle, check out [this post](https://between-the-crosses.tumblr.com/post/621555888233316352/battle-of-aisne-timeline) we made on our blog.
> 
> 4\. B Company seems to know there is an attack to come on the 27th. What's all that about?
> 
> Between 3 and 4 p.m. on May 26th, the messages were delivered across the Division that there was an imminent attack planned for 1 a.m. May 27th. One Captain Rogerson described the arrival of the message to the 23rd Brigade's Headquarters as:
>
>> "Millis, the Brigade Major, was stretching himself in the sun outside the dug-out. A signaller approached, saluted and handed him the little pink telephone form: 'The enemy will attack on a wide front at 01.00 hours to-morrow, 27th inst. aaa' then followed instructions as to dispositions. In a flash the world seemed altered. The landscape smiled no longer. It was all a grinning unreality, a mockery, the earth decked in spring finery so that hopes aroused might be completely dashed."
> 
>   
> 5\. Wow! Thank goodness the fighting is over.
> 
> . . . you say that, but -- what's left of the 8th Division (and the 2nd Devons) aren't actually pulled from the line until June 11th/12th. They're still fighting on and off for another week and a half . . .


	11. nwl: Interlude III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three letters.

_ May 8th, 1918 _

_ Mrs Antonia Sophia Maria Spencer, _

_ I am quite pleased to finally learn the whole of your name. If I may say so, it suits you -- boldly imperious and beautiful, both. _

_ I am happy to hear you do not suffer from such flights of fancy. Nevertheless, I assure you that my intentions towards yourself are distinctly different. Sergeant (now Lieutenant) Schofield is a very dear friend, yes; but I rather hope that you and I come to develop a relationship of a different nature. If it is agreeable to you, I should like to meet your parents when next I am in England.  _

_ \--Pardon my forwardness in this. We have once again been thrust into some action and suffered tremendously as a result of it. I’d happily explain the particulars, but I’ve no doubt you would receive this letter thoroughly blacked-out if I did so, and I shouldn’t like to foster the possibility that the first part of this letter is somehow misunderstood as a result.  _

_ What I believe I can tell you is that there has been considerable reorganisation and I have been promoted. I am now the Captain of my Company; Schofield has taken up my position as Lieutenant of our Platoon. We are both well-satisfied with these changes, much though they came as a result of great loss.  _

_ I have included a photograph I was able to get taken just recently. It was not easy to do, but I managed to track down a French photographer in a small town who was persuaded to practice his hobby for an English soldier.  _

_ Most sincerely, _

_ Joseph Andrew Blake _

_ ~ * ~ _

_ May 15th, 1918 _

_ Capt. Joseph Andrew Blake, _

_ I do not know what to say, other than you flatter me greatly! I find it most agreeable. I also find your forwardness delightful and am happy to reciprocate. If you are able to grant me a week's notice prior to your next leave, I can arrange for my parents to visit me in Leeds -- that way you shall not have to spend half your time at home traveling all over our beloved England.  _

_ Thank you for including your photograph. I am delighted to at last be able to peruse at my own leisure the countenance of one who has so thoroughly charmed me. May I also comment that you are quite striking in your new uniform?  _

_ I am certain that, loss or no loss, you have certainly earned your promotion through your own merits. I look forward to when you can relate to me the particulars of the circumstances, as it most certainly means we shall be meeting in person. _

_ With delight, _

_ Sophia Spencer _

~ * ~

8th June, 1918.

Headquarters, 8th Division

I should like to bring to your especial notice the soldierly and gallant conduct of the 2nd Devon. Regt., a conduct which was of unsurpassable excellence and a battalion whose discipline and fortitude were pre-eminent and much beyond the ordinary.

This Battalion was sent up on the night of May 26th to occupy the all important position of the BOIS DES BUTTES, with instructions to defend it to the last against all hostile attacks. When the enemy had successfully carried our forward and main defence on the morning of May 27th, long after, at a late hour of the morning, the 2nd Devon. Regt. was, though surrounded on all sides, successfully maintaining an unbroken front to the foe, and by hampering all attempts on his part to advance frontally was gaining time, which proved of the utmost value to enable us to organize our defences South of the AISNE, and assist the reinforcing troops to come up into action undisturbed.

One eyewitness states that he saw the 2nd Devon. Regt., though they were merely an island in the midst of an innumerable and determined foe, mowing down the Germans in large numbers by the steadiness of their fire, and their unshakeable discipline.

Another eyewitness, a Battery Commander, states as follows :--

"At a late hour of the morning those of my personnel who escaped the enemy ring of machine guns and his fearful barrage found the Commanding Officer of the 2nd Devon. Regt. and a handful of men, holding on to the last trench before the canal and in such a position that they were entirely without hope of help, but still fighting on. The Commanding Officer himself calmly writing his orders with a perfect hell of H.E. dropping round him. He was cross-questioned by me but said nothing could be done and advised those that could to get away. As all my artillerymen were quite unarmed he sent them off to get through if they could, refusing all their offers of help as they had no arms. His magnificent bearing and dauntless courage moved one's emotion as he had determined to carry on to the end"

There is no doubt that this Battalion perished en masse, fighting to the end, refusing to surrender, and smiting down their country's foe until they themselves ceased to exist.

On May 29th some 120 men of this Battalion, who had at the commencement of the fight been back at the Transport Lines, again proved that the exploits of their comrades, which I have already narrated, were no isolated act of valour, but was the common birthright of the regiment -- the inheritance of countless years of the obedience and discipline that the soldier owes to his noble calling, and a living and bright example for all to behold of their proud regimental motto of "SEMPER FIDELIS".

This gallant band, though they had been fighting continuously against desperate odds for 48 hours, when called upon to counter-attack and drive the enemy off the high ground he had seized about 2 miles North of SAVIGNY, at once responded to the effort required of them and by their swift and resolute advance drove the enemy off, seized and maintained their hold on a position, the retention of which was for the moment of urgent necessity to the security of our position.

These gallant men were throughout, by their unbroken front and high moral, an inspiration to the fainthearted and despondent, and a visible sign of what an undaunted courage that springs from the unbroken corporate life of one of the most famous regiments of our Regular Army can accomplish when the day seems lost and there be none to help, except that saving grave of a soldier's honour, which forbids him to accept defeat, and still makes him fight on whatever the odds against the enemies of his King and Country.

G. Grogan Brig.-General,

Commanding 23rd Infantry Brigade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep! The two letters referenced in the last chapter as well as the letter Grogan wrote to Divisional Command regarding the efforts of the 2nd Devons. Grogan's letter is a corrected transcription of a rough-draft that was included in the 2nd Devons' War Diaries. I feel it important to note that the Commanding Officer mentioned here, whose efforts we are obliquely attributing to Colonel Hepburn due to the nature of this narrative, was historically actually one Lieut.-Colonel R. H. Anderson-Morshead, D. S. O. 
> 
> The historical notes for the last chapter are also up if you want to go check those out! Sorry they took so long; it was hard for me to like. Organize them into a form that wasn't narrative . . .
> 
> Our final chapter of _the guns below / now we lie_ is in the works as you read this! It should be posted within a week and will, we hope, provide a satisfying conclusion to this installment of _between the crosses_. In the mean time, feel free to reach out and get in touch via comment or tumblr -- the series blog is @between-the-crosses, I'm @lizofalltrades, and Vuvu's @marbat!
> 
> HUGE THANKS TO: Our darling readers, as ever -- we adore you <3 <3 <3 We cannot find the words to express how much we value your comments and reviews; we love each and every one of you so much! Pavuvu, my dear -- darling <3 <3 <3 Shoutout to the Longfic Lads -- your encouragement and advice is, as ever, infinitely valuable! Shoutout also to writeyourownstory, who is amazing -- keep your eyes peeled, I hear there's going to be something new from her very soon!!!! 
> 
> As ever, everyone, stay safe and/or be clever about it! <3


	12. nwl: June 3rd - September 15th, 1918

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reconstruction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys -- thank you <3

_June 3rd [before midnight] - 4th [morning], 1918 -- Étréchy, France_

Either Joseph's little brother _isn't_ actually around or ghosts just aren't as useful as one might think, Benjamin reflects grumpily. The ghost supposedly promised to look around when he reappeared on the 1st, but, nevertheless, they don't find a graveyard until they are sent to Étréchy. 

The delay after such a long and bloody campaign has proved disastrous. Benjamin has watched for days as his officers (his friends) wrestled with some dangerous _other_ to keep moving, keep functioning. They managed for a while. But eventually, even Schofield couldn’t bear the invisible weight as these "ghosts" took their toll, and took their toll, and took their toll again. 

Benjamin struggles to keep from offering his help to the two of them as he watches Blake and Schofield stagger into the graveyard at a quarter 'til midnight, holding onto each other for support. He doesn't know what this bloody deadman business is about, precisely, but if the two of them had been doing poorly yesterday and were practically catatonic today, Benjamin privately fears it will only grow worse.

\--Well, they said this would help. And Benjamin supposes it can't hurt. It's not like he's got any other solutions for whatever's ailing them.

The minutes drag on with the two of them standing, swaying, alone in the graveyard. Benjamin spares a brief moment to thank the fact that, at least at this hour, there isn't anybody about to see a Major, a Captain, and a Lieutenant, all up to something from a bad joke. Just as he's about to call this off -- Blake is slowly losing his battle to stay upright -- they vanish into thin air.

Benjamin blinks and squints. No; they are definitely gone. He carefully ignores the creeping start of anxiety and settles in to wait, shifting so he leans against a wall. Schofield had said he wasn't sure how long it would take, but that it might be some time.

Half an hour passes. He gives up on standing and takes a seat.

After some more time, the gate squeaks and whines, swinging open. Benjamin startles out of the doze he's fallen into and gets to his feet as Schofield and Blake come back out. They both look like they are dead on their feet, but -- they are tracking his movements, he can see, so already they are miles better than they were a few hours ago.

"How long was it?" Schofield asks, wearily. Benjamin checks his watch; it's been over an hour.

"It's nearly a quarter after one," he says.

"Funny," Blake rasps, but clearly. "It felt longer than that."

"Either way, you two need sleep," Benjamin says briskly. He still hasn't built up any reserves after that horrendous fight and covering for his two senior officers in the little unit they've managed to create -- well, no matter. As Schofield has already said, this should do the trick, and Benjamin will have them to pick up the slack. With that in mind, it is easy to summon energy with two men so in need right in front of him. 

Benjamin shepherds them along. "Come on -- let's get you to bed." 

~ * ~

"Come on, Blake," someone says. "Schofield. Up you get."

Will moves on instinct, sitting upright. He rolls off the cot and lands on his feet, badly -- Tom steadies him. 

It's Richards. He watches with interest -- Will supposes it's not every day one sees a man being supported by nothing. "Sir," he says.

Richards's attention shifts, skittering off the empty space where Tom should be, and turns to Joseph. "Blake," he repeats.

"He hasn't done as well as you," Tom says to Will, once he has steadied himself. 

Will looks over sharply; Tom's expression is half-hidden worry. "What do you mean?" Will asks quietly.

Tom shakes his head, unhappy. He's watching his brother. Joseph isn't waking, or at least, not so easily as Will. He stirs, but only truly moves when Richards gives up and shakes him, hard. Even then, Joseph is groggy and barely responsive, sitting up slowly and holding onto his head.

Will understands the sentiment. He rubs the knuckles of his hand into the corner of his eye, feeling the drag of grainy sleep still caught there. If he's feeling this terrible, God only knows how Joseph is doing.

"Are we needed on the line?" Will asks. 

Richards is clearly fatigued; the shadows under his eyes look like bruises. His movements are short and jittery, his expression sharp and brittle as his pills wear off. "Yes," he says. "I've let you sleep as long as I can, but we're to move to the Front."

The billet they are in is empty, cleared of the soldiers who shared the space with them, and their belongings. Jacobsen -- still alive, Will is pleased to see -- stands at attention in the doorway with another man who looks familiar -- Williams, one of Joe's batmen. 

"Right," Will says, and helps Richards haul Joseph to his feet. 

~ * ~

_June 9th, 1918 -- Broussy, France_

They set out close to nine in the morning, marching for new billets. Will has come back to himself enough at this point that he doesn't need some of Richards's Forced March to get him moving at a pace other than a shamble. He's even able to encourage what's left of their little Company who, although the week on the line has not necessarily been quiet, are dragging more from the demoralising effect of having lost so many of their comrades in the last two weeks. Going into billets -- and rest -- will mean having to confront what they've been able to put off for the last week in the face of desperate survival.

Midday sees them to their new destination. Will isn't sure how long they shall be there -- Benjamin has been muttering about Command pushing for them all to go to a British sector, far from the Front and any possible danger -- but he helps the men get settled anyway. At least, with so many of the men -- well, practically everyone is new to each other; there aren't any long-standing feuds that need to be sorted before deciding who is bunking where.

Joseph gets a room to himself, in the same building where Richards gets one. Of B Company Lieutenants, only Will and Fahey are left, and someone is kind enough to decide they can share instead of putting them with others. Fahey's been twitchy as anything, but he keeps it together and answers politely enough to Will and Joseph both, so Will hasn't any real reason to pry. 

Nor, honestly, has he the energy to do so. Once he's certain the men he's responsible for are settled, Will makes for his and Fahey's room -- he can probably catch an afternoon nap.

Tom finds him halfway there. "Will," he says, getting Will's attention. "Joe sent me -- Richards wants to see both of you. They're in Joe's quarters."

It doesn't seem tremendously urgent -- Tom's not obviously stressed. "Is everything alright?" Will asks, clapping Tom on the shoulder in thanks. He changes direction as Tom falls into step with him. 

"Er," Tom says, a little uncertain. "I think so? Neither of them looked upset, exactly."

Will makes a noise of acknowledgement. Not much to say to that. 

Will didn't know Richards very much beyond his time as the Captain of B Company, truthfully, nor did Will cross paths with him on a more personal level outside of occasionally running into each other inside Joseph's rooms. After two weeks spent in close quarters, as fellow officers, however, Will has learnt that the man is, first and foremost, bloody insane. 

Will is still bemused by how the man had been cheerfully, horrendously unstoppable all through the long fight; Will doesn't know how he and Joseph would have managed running their mixed Company under the burden of the dead without Richards to take the lead. Not to mention that wild story of how he escaped the slaughter of the West Yorks -- it'd been a nice feather in his cap, Will is dead certain, coming back from behind enemy lines with some information about the disposition of their troops, even if they hadn't managed to make use of the information in the end. Richards has a truly indefatigable spirit, or so far as Will can tell; honestly, it's a better record than he's got himself and so he isn't inclined to complain.

Secondly, Will has learnt that Richards's first name is Benjamin and he refuses to hear Will or Joseph call him anything but when in private. This second bit of knowledge came most amusingly from how Richards upbraided Will and Joseph both for nearly a solid hour after they'd slept off their first visit to a graveyard to pass on the ghosts. Benjamin had been incensed that they hadn't taken better care of themselves, insisted the both of them tell him everything he needed to know about keeping deadmen from killing themselves "in sheer bloody stupidity," and also told them in no uncertain terms were they to consider themselves anything but personal friends at this point and that he would take it as a personal kindness it if they would try to remember that the next time they did something so bloody foolish.

\--All of which is to say that Will isn't too worried about whatever Richards wants them for. He doubts the man would steer them wrong.

Williams nods to Will once he sees him and opens the door without needing to be asked. Will thanks him and enters.

Richards is seated in a chair, in the act of handing over a glass of something. He's got another two glasses beside him on a table and some sort of heavy -- glass? -- decanter. Joe's seated on his bed -- he looks up and waves Will to sit in the only other unoccupied chair.

"There you are, Schofield," Richards says cheerfully. He hands over one of the other glasses immediately. Will toasts both of them with it as Tom makes himself right at home on Joe's bed, Joe budging over to make some room. 

"Here's the news," Richards says after returning it. "Our Division is going to be built back up, flat out. They're pulling men from seven of the New Army battalions that are in the process of being disbanded, so we're going to have a hell of a time getting them to integrate."

Just the thought of getting to know the inevitable new men is daunting to Will. They've made the final tallies, as close as they can; 5th Platoon is down by half. Of the men who've been with the platoon since the end of their time on the line last year, only Anderson, Brandt, Campbell, Hunt, Oakes, Upton, Lester, and Tyndall are still, miraculously, neither killed nor casualties such that they are headed towards a medical discharge. The others who've made it through are all the newer men, replacements sent to them starting in December.

And replacing them with men pulled from other battalions -- that's hard, Will knows. In the army, a lot of a soldier's identity is founded on their unit, their regimental pride. These new men will all have to let their old regiments go and adopt the new identity of the 2nd Devonshire -- which, in and of itself, has been whittled down to a bare 100 men. Whatever the identity of the 2nd Devons in a few months will be, it shan't be quite the same as it was before, not with so many new soldiers. 

Will finds he is breathing a little too shallowly, a little too quickly. He has to take a drink to help shove this block in his thoughts out of the way and then pinch the bridge of his nose to keep a brewing headache at bay whilst he quietly tries to even out his breath. 

"I suppose it could be worse," Joseph says lightly, trying for levity. It'd work better if he didn't look so resigned. "They could be taking what's left of us and splitting us up to rebuild a different Division."

\--which, yeah, true. Will tips his head in acknowledgment. 

Richards hums pensively for a moment before he returns to the subject at hand. "I'm moving back to the 2nd Devons," he says. "They're hounding me to put the Battalion back together, and we're going to get a month to do it well out of this French zone."

"A real rest and rebuild, then," Will says. Unlike the one they were supposed to have had in the Berry-au-Bac sector a few weeks ago. 

"Reconstruction, more like," Joseph mutters.

Richards ignores this magnificently. "I've been promoted again," he continues seriously, "and I've been given the leeway I need to pass the good fortune along. I don't want people I don't know to be my constant company. Joseph, I'm promoting you to Major; Will, you're taking his place as Captain."

"Er," Will says, and is very grateful that he wasn't in the middle of drinking anything at the moment. He exchanges a look with Joseph of mutual incomprehension.

Richards waves his hand over their non-existent objections. "You've got no say in this, either of you," he barrels on, as though his aggressive presentation will keep them from arguing. "I'm getting you both as far away from the action as I can manage it. I don't need to be playing nursemaid to two catatonic deadmen again." 

Will opens his mouth. He hasn't any idea for what -- to object? to argue against it? -- and closes it again, because -- . . . he is very tired of fighting. Being a Captain wouldn't protect him from that, not entirely -- nor being a Major, Joe -- but being Captain means they have a choice. Truthfully, being a Lieutenant meant they had a choice -- it just hadn't been much of a choice when Will knew each man going over the top was one of his.

. . . but now -- with 5th Platoon the way it is, and the way it would be rebuilt -- even if Will were to stay a Lieutenant, he wouldn't recognise the men he was leading. As a Captain, he would have to work most closely with only a few, whomever his Lieutenants and their Sergeants are. 

He looks to Joseph first, though. After a moment, Joseph just . . . shrugs.

Well, that settles it. "Yeah," Will says. "Alright. Let me know when we've got the patches and I'll set your uniforms straight."

"Excellent," Richards says with some satisfaction.

He doesn't stay long after that. They chat idly about other things -- catching up on each other's health, mostly; Richards is obnoxiously nosy and he has been taking great delight in trying to tease out the finer details of Will's life. But then he excuses himself, wishing them well, and also leaving the remainder of the bottle to them.

"Have you eaten yet?" Will asks Joseph.

"No," Joseph says tiredly. "You?"

Will shakes his head. "Tom grabbed me on my way to my quarters," he says. 

Joseph gets up with a grunt. "Let me get us something, then," he says, and opens the door. He exchanges quiet instructions with the batman -- he can run to the mess and pick up meals for the two of them under Joseph's authority.

Will takes off his cap and sets it on the table with a sigh. Maybe he can catch a few minutes' worth of sleep on Joseph's cot when they're done eating.

Finished, Joseph closes the door again and comes back over. "So," he asks, going to the table to pour another drink. "How're the men, then? All settled in?" He tops off Will's glass while he's at it, and takes Richards's seat, leaving the bed to Tom.

Will shrugs. It's been hard to muster the energy to do more than exist in the last week and a half and the topic is something that drags the mood down.

"Haven't heard anything about Farley's recovery, as yet, so we've no Sergeant for the time being." Not that Farley would be likely to be doing alright even if they decided against amputation -- he hadn't taken the news of Pickering well. "The rest of them -- well, they're still familiar with me; it hasn't been that long since I was the Sergeant -- but for the newest ones, that we got after the action in April, there's almost no connection."

Joseph nods, quiet for a long moment. "That'll help with being Captain," he says at last. "I know I was only in the position for a month, but it was -- difficult, remembering I wasn't to prioritise 5th Platoon over the others." _5th Platoon not being as it was_ would help is what he means -- would help Will to act as a fair Captain, in charge of four platoons and not just the one.

Will's breath comes short again at that thought. It seems shameful, somehow, to be grateful for the excuse to distance himself from caring so much.

He forces himself to take a drink instead of squeezing his glass to smithereens when he senses Joe's concern. Will just needs to stay alive. To make the most out of his second chance. Will has paid his dues in this war, time and over again. 

"Anything that allows me to roam with impunity at night," he says roughly. It's not the best way to change the subject. 

"God, yes," Joe says, tightly, and Will sees clearly that it's reminded Joseph of what Will's been trying to wall away -- the slow freezing they both experienced, carrying so many Dead. Will hadn't known it was possible for ghosts to actually affect the living beyond a slight chill, but the compounded effect of well over a thousand ghosts -- if not more, because neither of them could start counting without getting caught in a numbing deluge of whispering cries -- did, actually, have a physical effect, and hadn't that been _absolutely_ delightful to discover?

Will had handled it better than Joseph, but not by much. It'd taken a few days for Will to stop shivering at odd times, even in every stitch of clothing he had and while out under the increasingly-blazing spring sun; it'd taken Joseph nearly a week.

Will shakes himself out of the memory. "We'll make it through," Will reminds Joseph, and himself. He reaches out and takes Joseph's hand in his own and holds it, earnestly, even as Joseph just looks at him. "We will make it through this." 

~ * ~

_June 17th - July 15th, 1918 -- Montieres, France_

The new men come. The battalion trains for a month. 

The surreal quality of the positive action in rebuilding the battalion grates against the knowledge that there was a battalion before this one. 

It is deeply unsettling -- deeply upsetting, to see all the new faces where missing friends should be.

~ * ~

_July 16th, 1918 -- Montieres, France_

Building up a Battalion from scratch is exhausting. In the end, the result is a regiment that is just as new and unfamiliar as Joseph had dreaded it to be despite all the work he and Benjamin have put into it.

The most difficult part, Joseph reflects, is in how he and Benjamin had to work with all of the other officers to set the tone and culture of the Battalion. The 2nd Devons' traditions, its heritage -- they could not rely on the men reinforcing those things when the vast majority of the men simply did not know them in the first place. Everything he and Benjamin have been able to rely on unconsciously with regards to the behavior of the other men before -- it's all gone. They needed to instill it all over again.

Even their regimental badge has changed. Instead of the green-maroon-green, it has been reversed; now it is red-green-red. It is eerie, almost as though Joseph stepped into the Grim's otherworld and came out the wrong side. 

"So nice to be near the sea air, at least," Richards says one evening with a groan, stretching in front of the open window, watching the deepening twilight. They are some miles inland, but that hasn't stopped him from throwing them all open for any hint of a salty breeze.

"Did you take holidays at the sea often?" Joseph enquires idly. It's so late there can't possibly be any business for them, and he feels free to loosen out into a more relaxed posture, taking off his cap and running a hand through his hair.

"Oh yes. My wife loves it there. We would spend a month each summer." Benjamin looks wistfully towards the Channel. "I believe she had plans to go this summer as well, but -- she may yet stay home, with the baby due so soon."

"Due in August, wasn't it?"

Richards nods. "Mid-August," he says. "If we've got everything running as it ought, I'll be taking some leave to go home around then."

"It's high time you've taken some time, then," Joseph says sincerely. "You've been bloody busy -- you've earned it more than anyone here."

"Not everyone," Benjamin says, dryly. "Don't think I haven't forgotten you and Schofield. It's been impossible to grant you leave while we're all settling in to our new roles, but as soon as we're all comfortable, I'm sending you both home as well -- perhaps at the end of the month?"

"I can ask him," Joseph says slowly, thinking it out. "But I do know his own wife is due in September and he was planning to request time for then -- maybe it's best if you go first, for your wife, and then let him go."

Richards settles himself into a chair with a sigh of relief. "And what about yourself?" he asks comfortably. "Would you prefer the end of this month, or some other time?"

Joseph could put it off -- but he can't. Joseph hasn't been home since February. And he does have business back in England that he has been forced to put off, as well -- he feels the edges of Sophia's latest missive, just delivered yesterday, in his pocket. She's been bloody patient with his delaying his return for so long.

"Yes," Joseph says. "Alright."

~ * ~

_August 14th, 1918 -- in the trenches around Vimy, France_

"Joe!" Tom calls, spotting Joseph as soon as he gets out of the nice motorcar he can request to and from the transport lines. Joseph sees his brother come jogging towards him, grinning. "You're back!" Tom says when he's closer. "About time you made it. Did the train depot hold you up? You won't believe what you’ve missed!"

Joseph could have had the car take him all the way to the Battalion Headquarters, but he didn't mind the walk, and had it set him down at the rear of the camp. The time it takes to walk from here to Headquarters will give him a moment to adjust back into camp life. It will also give Tom time to blather whatever news he feels he needs to impart. 

Joseph looks at him more closely at his brother's words -- Tom is bursting with excitement. Despite his huge grin, there are signs of recent worry on his face; whatever it is, it is something fairly serious -- big news. Unease kicks through Joseph's chest, blotting out some of his relief at being back in familiar settings. 

His expression must change because Tom stops in surprise and hastily adds, "No, no, nothing like that. It's alright."

Joseph gets the attention of two Privates who are loafing about. "You there," he calls, seeing they've got badges of the 2nd Devons. "What's your company?"

"C Company, Sir!" one of them says as they salute, and rattles off their names without being prompted.

"Excellent," Joseph says after a narrow-eyed inspection that stiffens them up a bit. "Take these things to the Battalion Headquarters, would you? The orderlies there will know where you can put them."

"Yes Sir!"

"What happened?" Joseph asks as he makes for Battalion Headquarters at a moderate pace. He shall need to check in first and learn the disposition of the line before anything else. 

Tom looks rueful. "Sorry," he apologises. "I forgot you have to report back -- I should have waited."

"Too late for that now," Joseph growls. "Please get to the point?"

Tom grimaces. "It's just that Will's wife, Ellie -- we got a letter from Will's mother right after you left -- no no, I'm getting to it," he says quickly, seeing Joseph twitch. "She had twins! They came early, I guess, and there was some worry about Ellie, but -- they're doing okay."

Joseph feels a huge wave of faintness pass over him before his anxiety is replaced with an enormous sense of relief. He forces himself to keep moving only through sheer force of will. "Oh, God," he says. "Thank goodness." Will must be over the moon! --Damn, Joseph won't have time to talk to him until evening, likely. "Damn. I don't know how long I'll be at Headquarters, but once I'm finished -- I'll come find him. We'll have a drink!" 

Tom laughs. "Well, obviously," he says, and then he gains the crafty demeanor of a younger brother taking the piss out of his elder. "And I'd tell you the rest of it, but I know he'll want to tell you himself. So -- how was your time away?"

Joseph rolls his eyes. Of course Tom leaves it at that. Twins -- boys or girls? What are their names? Little brothers -- bloody hell. "Not so good as that," Joseph says. He might as well pass this along -- no doubt Tom will tell Will some of it ahead of time, but that's alright. Joseph holds his peace until they pass a gaggle of Signallers before continuing. "I've met Mrs Spencer's parents. The visit went well."

"Oho! Gotten everything sorted, then?" Tom asks, brightening with the glee of a younger brother given new ammunition. 

"Of course," Joseph replies loftily. "I do have some skill in persuasion."

"Well, with no natural charm, you'd need it --" Tom steps away at the expected swipe.

Battalion Headquarters looms ahead and they fall quiet. Joseph waves minutely in parting, and ducks in the entrance with a nod to the guards outside.

Richards welcomes him with the usual bombast and catches Joseph up quickly on the situation. There are rumors they are to be sent to a more active part of the Front -- more active only in that, with the recent victory at Amiens, it is likely they will be seeing some agitation from the Hun. However, the men are doing nicely for all they are still not fully-trained, and spirits are high -- they are eager to test their mettle.

Work commences immediately. There are a thousand things to coordinate if they are to be ready for when the orders come through. After this brief welcome back to the Battalion, Joseph is plunged into sorting through the logistics of getting the men in all their many units ready and fully equipped and adequately supported for what is to come.

As a result, it is very late when Richards finally dismisses him for the night. Joseph stops by his quarters to pick up the things he brought from home to share with Will and Tom, but even so, it is past 9 in the evening by the time he is able to make his way to Will's Captain's quarters.

"Joe!" Tom says cheerfully as soon as Joseph steps into the room.

Will has clearly been sitting at some paperwork -- requisitions or the like -- and the strain of it is still visible in the faint frown he has when he looks up. --Certainly it isn't anything deep enough to be from a more personal stress. His expression clears, though, when he sees Joseph at the door, and Will gets up to greet Joseph properly with a smile. "Joseph!" he says, warmly. "Welcome back."

"I'd say it's good to be back," Joseph says lightly, relieved that Tom was right about Will's wife being fine. He returns the embrace with feeling. "But I left a very lovely woman back in England for this, and I'm not too sure I'm happy about that." 

Will laughs. "Of course, of course!" he says, and though he invites Joseph to sit, Will immediately busies himself pulling out cups and a bottle of brandy. "Tell me all about it."

"Oh no," Joseph says, setting out the things he brought from home on the small table: jam, biscuits, a package of cinnamon drops for Will. There's a tin of tea, too, but he left that for tomorrow. "Absolutely not! I heard you had fantastic news from home, and I intend to hear all about it, first. Blame Tom if you must, as he decided the best time to tell me was right before I checked in at Headquarters."

"Tom!"

"I couldn't not tell him," Tom says defensively. "Hey, what kind of jam is that?"

"The kind you like, you bloody wanker," Joseph says, and smears some on a biscuit for his brother. "There. Knock yourself out."

Tom puts on his best snobbish face. "Don't mind if I do," he says, and disappears into the biscuit. Joseph sets it back in the package for now.

Will hands him a glass and sits. "What's he told you, then?"

"Just that your wife had twins?"

Will's smile threatens to actually become a grin. "She did! Twin boys -- she named one Tom for your brother, and one Tycho for -- whoever that may be? Someone she’s read about surely."

Joseph is touched at the remembrance and carefully does not look at the biscuit Tom is haunting. He covers his momentary lapse with a snort. "Tom's been insufferable, I'll bet," Joseph says, and can't hold back his laughter at Will's expression.

Will shrugs wryly. "He's insisting on coming home with me for leave," he says ruefully, swirling his glass. A bit of tension creeps into his frame and he pauses. "We're going to just have to hide him from the Grim for the rest of the war."

Joseph stops with his glass halfway to his mouth and thinks about that for a moment. His initial instinct is to object -- it's a risk -- but. Well. What about their lives out here isn't a risk? If Tom wants to go, Joseph isn't going to stop him. 

He lets it pass without comment. "Has your time been approved, then?" he asks instead.

Will nods. "Richards guaranteed it, just about," he says. 

"You'll have to let me know how it goes when you two return, then," Joseph says, and reaches out to tap his glass against Will's. 

~ * ~

_September 15th, 1918 -- Burnley, England_

"It should be my mother, meeting us at the station," Will reminds Tom as the train slows to a stop. He's nervous, or as nervous as Tom has ever seen him. "I don't know if she'll have the girls with her --"

"I know," Tom says.

"And if they're there, I won't be able to talk to you while we're walking. They don't know about what I can do, really, so --"

"I know," Tom says.

"And --" Will stops himself and sighs. "I'm just not sure what's going to happen."

Tom leans against him comfortingly. It only lasts a moment before Will gets to his feet, unable to stay still. 

The train stops. Will is off it as soon as the doors open, Tom following. The platform swirls with people, but it's not long before a space clears between Will and a woman, whose whole bearing indicates that she is here with a purpose. Tom doesn't need to remember the face in the photographs in Will's tin to recognise Ellie. 

Will moves fast, darting across the platform; he has her in his arms in seconds. She is crying, but she laughs when he picks her up and swings her in a circle. Then they stand for a moment, sharing each other's space in a close embrace that is politely ignored by everyone else.

A long minute passes. Tom gives them the time. 

Will pulls away, finally, and indicates Tom. "This is Tom, Tom Blake," he says to Ellie, and looks at Tom. "This is my wife, Ellie."

Ellie smiles. She can't see Tom, but she does her best to set her eyes on the space her husband indicated and manages to give the impression that she can. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Blake," she says, and takes Will's hand as though she can't bear to let him go. "Come home with us. It's about time you met the children." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first read Vuvu's Resonance on February 2nd of this year, I never expected my moment of mild interest to explode so spectacularly <3 And when I messaged Vuvu about writing something in the universe, she didn't expect it to go much further than _hold it high!_ But here we are, guys <3 It's been a HELL of a ride! 
> 
> Vuvu, babe <3 BABE <3 <3 <3
> 
> To you all, lovely readers -- yes, to ALL OF YOU! -- and particularly to those of you who commented: to Laila and Yes, to bexinthesky, to the Longfic Lads (LadyCharity, scientistsinistral, and WafflesRisa), to Ifis and FateRagalan, to Luckylily, to slyphantomm, to ElectricRaven99, to TheLoneLamp and allthe_subtext, to Winterturtle and writeyourownstory, to heyyylee ad Sophia_the_Scribe, and to Georgia and Wordborne and yrlec and Risingshadows and Whoops -- as well as those of you who've talked to us elsewhere: to yonderlight and inconsistentlypassionate and constantbellpepper -- thank you SO MUCH for your constant support and wonderful comments, your belief in us, the times you've recommended this series, and most of all for STICKING WITH US! Truly, absolutely -- we couldn't have done it without you!
> 
> Special thanks to my husband (and the rest of my family) for putting up with me doing nothing but THIS for MONTHS! 
> 
> Massive thanks also to Sam Mendes, Krysty Wilson-Cairns, Roger Deakins, George MacKay, Dean Charles-Chapman, all the wonderful actors who appeared for a grand total of three minutes, and everyone else who were responsible for creating the movie that inspired this fic. If any of you guys ever read this, please know that it has had such a hugely positive impact in all our lives -- words cannot express what it means to us. (Besides the 190k we've written so far!)
> 
> As for the series as a whole --
> 
> There are two more stories to be told, we think! One will be short -- [an epilogue of sorts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25052311). The other will be a longer, but much lighter story, even though it will be a SPOOKY GHOST STORY! oOoOoOoOoO! We recommend checking the series page or the tumblr blog for updates on that!
> 
> Historical Notes:
> 
> None really for this chapter. If you have particular questions, though, feel free to ask in the comments or on tumblr: @between-the-crosses!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [live](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431750) by [Ealasaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid)




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